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THE LAST
CHRONICLE OF BARSET

IRRorto ot JSntfionp l^roUope

die Cfinmidei? of |Karfl;etiBE|itte. Comprising:

THE WARDEN, 1 Vol.

BARCHESTER TOWERS, 8 Vok.

DR. THORN E, 2 VoJ».

FRAMLEY PARSONAGE, 2 Vols.

THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON, 8 Vol».

LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET, 3 Vols.

tCde ^rlimttmtai? ^ObeU. Comprising:

THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS, 2VoI».
CAN YOU FORGIVE HER, 8 Vob.
PHINEAS FINN, 8 Vols.
PHINEAS REDUX 8 Vote.
THE PRIME MINISTER, 8 Vols.
THE DUKE'S CHILDREN, 8 Vol*.

Wfft ilbnor I^Ke .^ObrU. Comprising:

ORLEY FARM, 8 Vols.

THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON, t Vols.

IS HE POPKNJOY, 2 Vols.

JOHN CALDIGATE, 2 Vols.

tCfie Slttto&tograii^ of Sititfionp tCroIbqir.

IVol.

• J -

* «

THE LAST
CHRONICLE OF BARSET

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

VOL.1

NEW-YORK

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

1909

CONTENTS.

I. How Did He Get It? i

II. "By Heavens, He had Better Not!" i8

III. The Archdeacon's Threat. 31

IV. The Clergyman's House at Hogglestock.. 39
V. What the World Thought about It 51

VI. Grace Crawley 60

VII. Miss Prettyman's Private Room 76

VIII. Mr. Crawley is Taken to Silverbridge. ... 92

IX. Grace Crawley Goes to Alungton 113

X. Dinner at Framley Court 128

XI. The Bishop Sends His Inhibition 138

XII. Mr. Crawley Seeks for Sympathy 151

XIII. The Bishop's Angel 165

XIV. Major Grantly Consults a Friend 180

XV. Up in London 190

XVI. Down at Allington 208

XVII. Mr. Crawley is Summoned to Barchester. 227
XVIII. The Bishop of Barchester is Crushed .... 242

XIX. "Where Did It Come From?" 257

XX. What Mr. Walker Thought about It 265

XXI. Mr. Robarts on His Embassy 276

XXII. Major Grantly at Home 289

206689

vi CONTENTS.

CHAPTBR FACB

XXIII. Miss Lily Dale's Resolution 304

XXIV. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's Dinner-Party. . . 322
XXV. Miss Madauna Demolines 344

XXVI. The Picture. 358

XXVII. A Hero at Home. 370

XXVIII. Showing how Major Grantly took a

Walk 383

XXIX. Miss Lily Dale's Logic. 39S

THE LAST CHRONICLE
OF BARSET.

CHAPTER I.

HOW DID HE GET IT?

" I CAN never bring myself to believe it, John," said
Mary Walker, the pretty daughter of Mr. George
Walker, attorney of Silverbridge. Walker and Win-
throp was the name of the firm, and they were respect-
able people, who did all the solicitors' business that
had to be done in that part of Barsetshire on behalf of
the Crown, were employed on the local business of the
Duke of Omnium, who is great in those parts, and al-
together held their heads up high, as provincial lawyers
often do. They, — the Walkers, — ^lived in a great brick
house in the middle of the town, gave dinners, to which
the county gentlemen not unfrequently condescended
to come, and in a mild way led the fashion in Silver-
bridge. " I can never bring myself to believe it,
John," said Miss Walker.

" You '11 have to bring yourself to believe it," said
John, without taking his eyes from his book.
A clergyman, — and such a clergyman too!"

VOL. I. — 1

3 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" I don't see that that has anything to do with it."
And as he now spoke John did take his eyes off his
book. "Why should not a clergyman turn thief as
well as anybody else? You girls always seem to for-
get that clergymen are only men after all."

" Their conduct is likely to be better than that of
other men, I think."

" I deny it utterly," said John Walker. " 1 11 under-
take to say that at this moment there are more clergy-
men in debt in Barsetshire than there are either lawyers
or doctors. This man has always been in debt. Since
he has been in the county I don't think he has ever
been able to show his face in the High Street of
Silverbridge."

" John, that is saying more than you have a right to
say," said Mrs. Walker.

"Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a
butcher who had threatened a few days before to post
bills all about the county, giving an account of the
debt that was due to him, if the money was not paid
at once."

" More shame for Mr. Fletcher," said Mary. " He
has made a fortune as butcher in Silverbridge."

"What has that to do with it? Of course a man
likes to have his money. He had written three times
to the bishop, and he had sent a man over to Hoggle-
stock to get his little bill settled six days running. You
see he got it at last. Of course a tradesman must look
for his money."

" Mamma, do you think that Mr. Crawley stole the
cheque? " Mary, a§..she asked the question, came and
stood over her mother, looking at her with anxious
eyes.

4-
T

HOW DID HE GET IT? 3

" I would rather give no opinion, my dear."

" But you must think something, when everybody is
talking about it, mamma."

" Of course my mother thinks he did," said John,
going back to his book. ** It is impossible that she
should think otherwise."

" That is not fair, John," said Mrs. Walker ; " and
I won't have you fabricate thoughts for me, or put the
expression of them into my mouth. The whole affair
is very painful, and as your father is engaged in the
inquiry I think that the less said about the matter in
this house the better. I am su^e that that would be
your father's feeling."

" Of course I should say nothing about it before
him," said Mary. ** I know that papa does not wish
to have it talked about. But how is one to help think-
ing about such a thing? It would be so terrible for
all of us who belong to the church."

"I do not see that at all," said John. "Mr. Crawley
is not more than any other man just because he 's a
clergyman. I hate all that kind of clap-trap. There
are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who think the
matter should n't be followed up because the man is in
a position which makes the crime more criminal in him
than it would be in another."

" But I feel sure that Mr. Crawley has committed
no crime at all," said Mary.

" My dear," said Mrs. Walker, " I have just said
that I would rather you would not talk about it. Papa
will be in directly."

" I won't, mamma ; — only "

"Only! yes; just only!" said John. "She'd go
on till dinner if any one would stay to hear her."

4 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" You Ve said twice as much as I have, John." But
John had left the room before his sister's last words
could reach him.

" You know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to
help thinking of it," said Mary.

" 1 dare say it is, my dear."

" And when one knows the people it does make it
so dreadful."

"But do you know them? I never spoke to Mr.
Crawley in my life, and I do not think I ever saw
her."

" I knew Grace very well ; — when she used to come
first to Miss Prettyman*s school."

"Poor girl! I pity her."

"Pity her! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My
heart bleeds for them. And yet I do not believe for
a moment that he stole the cheque. How can it be
possible? For though he may have been in debt be-
cause they have been so very, very poor ; yet we all
know that he has been an excellent clergyman. When
the Robartses were dining here last I heard Mrs.
Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his duties
she had hardly ever seen any one equal to him. And
the Robartses know more of them than anybody."

"They say that the dean is his great friend."

" What a pity it is that the Arabins should be away
just now when he is in such trouble." And in this
way the mother and daughter went on discussing the
question of the clergyman's guilt in spite of Mrs.
Walker's previously expressed desire that nothing more
might be said about it. But Mrs. Walker, like many
other mothers, was apt to be more free in conv-erse
with her daughter than she was with her son. While

HOW DID HE GET IT? 5

they were thus talking the father came in from his
office, and then the subject was dropped. He was a
man between fifty and sixty years of age, with grey
hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, but still
gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which
comfortable position and the respect of others will
generally seem to give. A man rarely carries himself
meanly whom the world holds high in esteem.

" I am very tired, my dear," said Mr. Walker.

"You look tired. Come and sit down for a few
minutes before you dress. Mary, get your father's
slippers." Mary instantly ran to the door.

" Thanks, my darling," said the father. And then
he whispered to his wife, as soon as Mary was out ot
hearing, "I fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I
fear he is! I fear he is! "

" Oh, heavens! what will become of them? "
What indeed! She has been with me to-day."
Has she? And what could you say to her? "

" I told her at first that I could not see her, and
begged her not to speak to me about it. I tried to
make her understand that she should go to some one
else. But it was of no use."

"And how did it end?"

"I asked her to go in to you, but she declined.
She said you could do nothing for her."

"And does she think her husband guilty? "

"No, indeed. She think him guilty! Nothing on
earth,— or from heaven either, as I take it, would make
her suppose it to be possible. She came to me simply
to tell me how good he was."

" I love her for that," said Mrs. Walker.

"So did I. But what is the good of loving her?

6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Thank you, dearest. I '11 get your slippers for you
some day, perhaps."

The whole county was astir in this matter of the
alleged guilt of the Reverend Josiah Crawley, — the
whole county, almost as keenly as the family of Mr.
Walker, of Silverbridge. The crime laid to his charge
was the theft of a cheque for twenty pounds, which he
was said to have stolen out of a pocket-book left or
dropped in his house, and to have passed as money
into the hands of one Fletcher, a butcher of Silver-
bridge, to whom he was indebted. Mr. Crawley was
in those days the perpetual curate of Hogglestock, a
parish in the northern extremity of East Barsetshire ; a
man known by all who knew anything of him to be
very poor, — an unhappy, moody, disappointed man,
upon whom the troubles of the world always seemed
to come with a double weight. But he had ever been
respected as a clergyman, since his old friend Mr.
Arabin, the dean of Barchester, had given him the
small incumbency which he now held. Though
moody, unhappy, and disappointed, he was a hard-
working, conscientious pastor among the poor people
with whom his lot was cast ; for in the parish of Hog-
glestock there resided only a few farmers higher in
degree than field laborers, brickmakers, and such-like.
Mr. Crawley had now passed some ten years of his
life at Hogglestock ; and during those years he had
worked very hard to do his duty, struggling to teach
the people around him perhaps too much of the mys-
tery, but something also of the comfort, of religion.
That he had become popular in his parish cannot be
said of him. He was not a man to make himself
popular in any position. I have said that he was

HOW DID HE GET IT? J

moody and disappointed. He was even worse than
this; he was morose, sometimes almost to insanity.
There had been days in which even his wife had found
it impossible to deal with him otherwise than as with an
acknowledged lunatic. And this was known among the
farmers, who talked about their clergyman among them-
selves as though he were a madman. But among the
very poor, among the brickmakers of Hoggle End, —
a lawless, drunken, terribly rough lot of humanity, — he
was held in high respect ; for they knew that he lived
hardly, as they lived ; that he worked hard, as they
worked ; and that the outside world was hard to him,
as it was to them ; and there had been an apparent
sincerity of godliness about the man, and a manifest
struggle to do his duty in spite of the world's ill-usage,
which had won its way even with the rough ; so that
Mr. Crawley's name had stood high with many in his
parish, in spite of the unfortunate peculiarity of his
disposition. This was the man who was now accused
of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds.

But before the circumstances of the alleged theft are
stated a word or two must be said as to Mr. Crawley's
family. It is declared that a good wife is a crown to
her husband, but Mrs. Crawley had been much more
than a crown to him. As had regarded all the inner
Kfe of the man, — all that portion of his life which had
not been passed in the pulpit or in pastoral teaching,
— she had been crown, throne, and sceptre all in one.
That she had endured with him and on his behalf the
miseries of poverty, and the troubles of a life which
had known no smiles, is perhaps not to be alleged as
much to her honour. She had joined herself to him for
better or worse, and it was her manifest duty to bear

S THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

such things. Wives always have to bear them, know-
ing when they marry that they must take their chance.
Mr. Crawley might have been a bishop, and Mrs.
Crawley, when she married him, perhaps thought it
probable that such would be his fortune. Instead of
that, he was now, just as he was approaching his fif-
tieth year, a perpetual curate, with an income of one
hundred and thirty pounds per annum, — ^and a family.
That had been Mrs. Crawley's luck in life, and of
course she bore it. But she had also done much more
than this. She had striven hard to be contented, or,
rather, to appear to be contented, when he had been
most wretched and most moody. She had struggled
to conceal from him her own conviction as to his half-
insanity, treating him at the same time with the respect
due to an honoured father of a family, and with the
careful measured indulgence fit for a sick and wayward
child. In all the terrible troubles of their life her
courage had been higher than his. The metal of which
she was made had been tempered to a steel which was
very rare and fine, but the rareness and fineness of
which he had failed, if^to appreciate, at any rate to
imitate. He had often told her that she was without
pride, because she had stooped to receive from others,
on his behalf and on behalf of her children, things
which were very needful, but which she could not buy.
He had told her that she was a beggar, and that it was
better to starve than to beg. She had borne the re-
buke without a word in reply, and had then begged
again for him and had endured the starvation herself.
Nothing in their poverty had, for years past, been a
shame to her ; but every accident of their poverty was
still, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him.

HOW DID HE GET IT? 9

They had had many children, and three were still
alive. Of the eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall hear
much in the coming story. She was at this time nine-
teen years old, and there were those who said that, in
spite of her poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and
a certain thin, unfledged, unrounded form of person, a
want of fulness in the lines of her figure, she was the
prettiest girl in that part of the world. She was living
now at a school in Silverbridge, where for the last year
she had been a teacher ; and there were many in Sil-
verbridge who declared that very bright prospects were
opening to her, — that young Major Grantly of Cosby
Lodge, who, though a widower with a young child,
was the cynosure of all female eyes in and round Sil-
verbridge, had found beauty in her thin face, and that
Grace Crawley's fortune was made in the teeth, as it
were, of the prevailing ill-fortune of her family. Bob
Crawley, who was two years younger, was now at
Marlbro' School, from whence it was intended that he
should proceed to Cambridge and be educated there
at the expense of his godfather, Dean Arabin. In this
also the world saw a stroke of good luck. But then
nothing was lucky to Mr. Crawley. Bob, indeed, who
had done very well at school, might do well at Cam-
bridge, — ^might do great things there. But Mr. Craw-
ley would almost have preferred that the boy should
work in the fields, than that he should be educated in
a manner so manifestly eleemosynary. And then his
clothes! How was he to be provided with clothes fit
either for school or for college ? But the dean and
Mrs. Crawley between them managed this, leaving Mr.
Crawley very much in the dark, as Mrs. Crawley was
in the habit of leaving him. Then there was a younger

lO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

daughter, Jane, still at home, who passed her life be-
tween her mother's work-table and her father's Greek,
mending linen and learning to scan iambics, — for Mr.
Crawley in his early days had been a ripe scholar.

And now there had come upon them all this terribly
crushing disaster. That poor Mr. Crawley had grad-
ually got himself into a mess of debt at Silverbridge,
from which he was quite unable to extricate himself,
was generally known by all the world both of Silver-
bridge and Hogglestock. To a great many it was
known that Dean Arabin had paid money for him,
very much contrary to his own consent, and that he
had quarrelled, or attempted to quarrel, with the dean
in consequence, — ^had so attempted, although the
money had in part passed through his own hands.
There had been one creditor, Fletcher, the butcher of
Silverbridge, who had of late been specially hard upon
poor Crawley. This man, who had not been without
good-nature in his dealings, had heard stories of the
dean's good-will and such-like, and had loudly ex-
pressed his opinion that the perpetual curate of Hog-
glestock would show a higher pride in allowing him-
self to be indebted to a rich brother clergyman, than
in remaining under thrall to a butcher. And thus a
rumour had grown up. And then the butcher had
written repeated letters to the bishop, — to Bishop
Proudie of Barchester, — ^who had at first caused his
chaplain to answer them, and had told Mr. Crawley
somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a clergy-
man who eat meat and did not pay for it. But noth-
ing that the bishop could say or do enabled Mr. Craw-
ley to pay the butcher. It was very grievous to such
a man as Mr. Crawley to receive these letters from

HOW DID HE GET IT? II

such a man as Bishop Proudie. The letters came, and
made festering wounds, but then there was an end of
them. And at last there had come forth from the
butcher's shop a threat that if the money were not paid
by a certain date, printed bills should be posted about
the county. All who heard of this in Silverbridge were
very angry with Mr. Fletcher, for no one there had
ever known a tradesman to take such a step before ;
but Fletcher swore that he would persevere, and de-
fended himself by showing that six or seven months
since, in the spring of the year, Mr. Crawley had been
paying money in Silverbridge, but had paid none to
him, — to him who had been not only his earliest but
his most enduring creditor. " He got money from the
dean in March," said Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Walker,
" and he paid twelve pounds ten to Green, and seven-
teen pounds to Grobury, the baker." It was that
seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker, for flour,
which made the butcher so fixedly determined to smite
the poor clergyman hip and thigh. "And he paid
money to Hall, and to Mrs. Holt, and to a deal more ;
but he never came near my shop. If he had even
shown himself I would not have said so much about
it." And then a day before the date named, Mrs.
Crawley had come to Silverbridge, and had paid the
butcher twenty pounds in four five-pound notes. So
far Fletcher the butcher had been successful.

Some six weeks after this, inquiry began to be made
as to a certain cheque for twenty pounds drawn by
Lord Lufton on his bankers in London, which cheque
had been lost early in the spring by Mr. Soames, Lord
Lufton's man of business in Barsetshire, together with
a pocket-book in which it had been folded. This

12 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

pocket-book Soames had believed himself to have left
at Mr. Crawley^s house, and had gone so far, even at
the time of the loss, as to express his absolute convic-
tion that he had so left it. He was in the habit of
paying a rent-charge to Mr. Crawley on behalf of Lord
Lufton, amounting to twenty pounds four shillings,
every half-year. Lord Lufton held the large tithes of
Hogglestock, and paid annually a sum of forty pounds
eight shillings to the incumbent. This amount was,
as a rule, remitted punctually by Mr. Soames through
the post. On the occasion now spoken of he had had
some reason for visiting Hogglestock and had paid the
money personally to Mr. Crawley. Of so much there
was no doubt. But he had paid it by a cheque drawn
by himself on his own bankers at Barchester, and that
cheque had been cashed in the ordinary way on the
next morning. On returning to his own house in Bar-
chester he had missed his pocket-book, and had written
to Mr. Crawley to make inquiry. There had been no
money in it, beyond the cheque drawn by Lord Lufton
for twenty pounds. Mr. Crawley had answered this
letter by another, saying that no pocket-book had been
found in his house. All this had happened in March.
In October, Mrs. Crawley paid the twenty pounds
to Fletcher, the butcher, and in November Lord Luf-
ton's cheque was traced back through the Barchester
bank to Mr. Crawley's hands. A brickmaker of
Hoggle End, much favoured by Mr. Crawley, had
asked for change over the counter of this Barchester
bank, — ^not, as will be understood, the bank on which
the cheque was drawn, — and had received it. The
accommodation had been refused to the man at first,
but when he presented the cheque the second day.

HOW DID HE GET IT? I3

bearing Mr. Crawley's name on the back of it, together
with a note from Mr. Crawley himself, the money had
been given for it; and the identical notes so paid
had been given to Fletcher, the butcher, on the next
day by Mrs. Crawley. When inquiry was made, Mr.
Crawley stated that the cheque had been paid to him
by Mr. Soames, on behalf of the rent-charge due to him
by Lord Lufton. But the error of this statement was
at once made manifest. There was the cheque, signed
by Mr. Soames himself, for the exact amount, — twenty
pounds four shillings. As he himself declared, he had
never in his life paid money on behalf of Lord Lufton
by a cheque drawn by his lordship. The cheque given
by Lord Lufton, and which had been lost, had been a
private matter between them. His lordship had simply
wanted change in his pocket, and his agent had given
it to him. Mr. Crawley was speedily shown to be al-
together wrong in the statement made to account for
possession of the cheque.

Then he became very moody and would say nothing
further. But his wife, who had known nothing of his
first statement when made, came forward and declared
that she believed the cheque for twenty pounds to be
a part of a present given by Dean Arabin to her hus-
band in April last. There had been, she said, great
heartburnings about this gift, and she had hardly dared
to speak to her husband on the subject. An execu-
tion had been threatened in the house by Grobury, the
baker, of which the dean had heard. Then there had
been some scenes at the deanery between her husband
and the dean and Mrs. Arabin, as to which she had
subsequently heard much from Mrs. Arabin. Mrs.
Arabin had told her that money had been given, — ^and

14 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

at last taken. Indeed, so much- had been very appar-
ent, as bills had been paid to the amount of at least
fifty pounds. When the threat made by the butcher
had reached her husband's ears, the effect upon him
had been very grievous. All this was the story told
by Mrs. Crawley to Mr. Walker, the lawyer, when he
was pushing his inquiries. She, poor woman, at any
rate told all that she knew. Her husband had told
her one morning, when the butcher's threat was weigh-
ing heavily on his mind, speaking to her in such a
humour that she found it impossible to cross-question
him, that he had still money left, though it was money
which he had hoped that he would not be driven to
use ; and he had given her the four five- pound notes,
and had told her to go to Silverbridge and satisfy the
, man who was so eager for his money. She had done
so, and had felt no doubt that the money so forthcom-
ing had been given by the dean. That was the story
as told by Mrs. Crawley.

But how could she explain her husband's statement
as to the cheque, which had been shown to be alto-
gether false? All this passed between Mr. Walker and
Mrs. Crawley, and the lawyer was very gentle with
her. In the first stages of the inquiry he had simply
desired to learn the truth, and place the clergyman
above suspicion. Latterly, being bound as he was to
follow the matter up officially, he would not have seen
Mrs. Crawley, had be been able to escape that lady's
importunity. "Mr. Walker," she had said, at last,
" you do not know my husband. No one knows him
but I. It is hard to have to tell you of all our
troubles." " If I can lessen them, trust me that I will
do so," said the lawyer. " No one, I think, can lessen

HOW DID HE GET IT? I5

them in this world," said the lady. "The truth is,
sir, that my husband often knows not what he says.
When he declared that the money had been paid to
him by Mr. Soames, most certainly he thought so.
There are times when in his misery he knows not what
he says, — ^when he forgets everything."

Up to this period Mr. Walker had not suspected
Mr. Crawley of anything dishonest, nor did he suspect
him as yet. The poor man had probably received the
money from the dean, and had told the lie about it,
not choosing to own that he had taken money from
his rich friend, and thinking that there would be no
further inquiry. He had been very foolish, and that
would be the end of it. Mr. Soames was by no means
so good-natured in his belief. "How should my
pocket-book have got into Dean Arabin's hands? " said
Mr. Soames^ almost triumphantly. "And then I felt
sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley *s house! "

Mr. Walker wrote a letter to the dean, who at that
moment was in Florence, on his way to Rome, from
whence he was going on to the Holy Land. There
came back a letter from Dr. Arabin, saying that on the
1 7th of March he had given to Mr. Crawley a sum of
fifty pounds, and that the payment had been made with
five Bank of England notes of ten pounds each, which
had been handed by him to his friend in the library
at the deanery. The letter was very short, and may,
perhaps, be described as having been almost curt.
Mr. Walker, in his anxiety to do the best he could for
Mr. Crawley, had simply asked a question as to the
nature of the transaction between the two gentlemen,
saying that no doubt the dean's answer would clear up
a little mystery which existed at present respecting a

X6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

cheque for twenty pounds. The dean in answer sim-
ply stated the fact as it has been given above ; but he
wrote to Mr. Crawley begging to know what was in
truth this new difficulty, and offering any assistance in
his power. He explained all the circumstances of the
money, as he remembered them. The sum advanced
had certainly consisted of fifty pounds, and there had
certainly been five Bank of England notes. He had
put the notes into an envelope, which he had not
closed, but had addressed to Mr. Crawley, and had
placed this envelope in his friend's hands. He went
on to say that Mrs. Arabin would have written, but
that she was in Paris with her son. Mrs. Arabin was
to remain in Paris during his absence in the Holy
Land, and meet him in Italy on his return. As she
was so much nearer at hand, the dean expressed a hope
that Mrs. Crawley would apply to her if there was any
trouble.

The letter to Mr. Walker was conclusive as to the
dean's money. Mr. Crawley had not received Lord
Lufton's cheque from the dean. Then whence bad he
received it? The poor wife was left by the lawyer to
obtain further information from her husband. Ah,
who can tell how terrible were the scenes between that
poor pair of wretches, as the wife endeavoured to learn
the truth from her miserable, half -maddened husband!
That her husband had been honest throughout, she had
not any shadow of doubt. She did not doubt that to
her at least he endeavoured to tell the truth, as far as
his poor racked, imperfect memory would allow him to
remember what was true and what was not true. The
upshot of it all was that the husband declared that he
still believed that the money had come to him from the

HOW DID HE GET IT? IJ

dean. He had kept it by him, not wishing to use it if
he could help it. He had forgotten it, — so he said at
times, — Shaving understood from Arabin that he was to
have fifty pounds, and having received more. If it had
not come to him from the dean, then it had been sent
to him by the Prince of Evil for his utter undoing ;
and there were times in which he seemed to think that
such had been the manner in which the fatal cheque
had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly
confused, contradictory, unintelligible, — speaking al-
most as a madman might speak, — ^ending always by
declaring that the cruelty of the world had been too
much for him, that the waters were meeting over his
head, and pra3ring for God's mercy to remove him from
the world. It need hardly be said that his poor wife
in these days had a burden on her shoulders that was
more than enough to crush any woman.

She at last acknowledged to Mr. Walker that she
could not account for the twenty pounds. She herself
would write again to the dean about it, but she hardly
hoped for any further assistance there. " The dean's
answer is very plain," said Mr. Walker. "He says
that he gave Mr. Crawley five ten-pound notes, and
those five notes we have traced to Mr. Crawley's
hands." Then Mrs. Crawley could say nothing fiu*ther
beyond making protestations of her husband's in-
nocence.

VOL. I. — 2

CHAPTER II.

"by heavens, he had better not!*

I MUST ask the reader to make the acquaintance of
Major Grantly of Cosby Lodge, before he is intro-
duced to the family of Mr. Crawley, at their parsonage
in Hogglestock. It has been said that Major Grantly
had thrown a favourable eye on Grace Crawley, — by
which report occasion was given to all men and women
in those parts to hint that the Crawleys, with all their
piety and humility, were very cunning, and that one
of the Grantlys was, — to say the least of it, — ^very soft,
admitted as it was throughout the county of Barset-
shire, that there was no family therein more widely
awake to the affairs generally of this world and the
next combined, than the family of which Archdeacon
Grantly was the respected head and patriarch. Mrs.
Walker, the most good-natured woman in Silverbridge,
had acknowledged to her daughter that she could not
understand it, — that she could not see anything at
all in Grace Crawley. Mr. Walker had shrugged his
shoulders and expressed a confident belief that Major
Grantly had not a shilling of his own beyond his half-
pay and his late wife's fortune, which was only six
thousand pounds. Others, who were ill-natured, had
declared that Grace Crawley was httle better than a

BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT!" 1 9

beggar, and that she could not possibly have acquired
the manners of a gentlewoman. Fletcher the butcher
had wondered whether the major would pay his future
father-in-law's debts ; and Dr. Tempest, the old rector
of Silverbridge, whose four daughters were all as yet
unmarried, had turned up his old nose, and had hinted
that half-pay majors did not get caught in marriage so
easily as that.

Such and such like had been the expressions of the
opinion of men and women in Silverbridge. But the
matter had been discussed further afield than at Silver-
bridge, and had been allowed to intrude itself as a most
unwelcome subject into the family conclave of the
archdeacon's rectory. To those who have not as yet
learned the fact from the public character and well-
appreciated reputation of the man, let it be known that
Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as he had been
for many years previously, Archdeacon of Barchester
and Rector of Plumstead Episcopi. A rich and pros-
perous man he had ever been, — though he also had
had his sore troubles, as we all have, — ^his having arisen
chiefly from want of that higher ecclesiastical promo-
tion which his soul had coveted, and for which the
whole tenour of his life had especially fitted him.
Now, in his green old age, he had ceased to covet, but
had not ceased to repine. He had ceased to covet
aught for himself, but still coveted much for his chil-
dren ; and for him such a marriage as this which was
now suggested for his son was encompassed almost
with the bitterness of death. " I think it would ki)!
me," he had said to his wife ; " by heavens, I think it
would be my death ! "

A daughter of the archdeacon had made a splendid

20 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSilT.

matrimonial alliance, — so splendid that its history was
at the time known to all the aristocracy of the county,
and had^not been altogether forgotten by any of those
who keep themselves well instructed in the details of
the peerage. Griselda Grantly had married Lord Dum-
bello, the eldest son of the Marquis of Hartletop, —
than whom no English nobleman was more puissant,
if broad acres, many castles, high title, and stars and
ribbons are any signs of puissance, — and she was now,
herself. Marchioness of Hartletop, with a little Lord
Dumbello of her own. The daughter's visits to the
parsonage of her father were of necessity rare, such
necessity having come from her own altered sphere of
life. A Marchioness of Hartletop has special duties
which will hardly permit her to devote herself fre-
quently to the humdrum society of a clerical father
and mother. That it would be so, father and mother
had understood when they sent the fortunate girl forth
to a higher world. But, now and again, since her
august marriage, she had laid her coroneted head upon
one of the old rectory pillows for a night or so, and on
such occasions all the Plumsteadians had been loud in
praise of her condescension. Now it happened that
when this second and more aggravated blast of the
evil wind reached the rectory, — the renewed waft of
the tidings as to Major Grantly's infatuation regarding
Miss Grace Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to
bring with it something of confirmation, — ^it chanced,
I say, that at that moment Griselda, Marchioness of
Hartletop, was gracing the paternal mansion. It need
hardly be said that the father was not slow to invoke
such a daughter's counsel, and such a sister's aid.
I am not quite sure that the mother would have

"BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT!" 21

been equally quick to ask her daughter's advice had
she been left in the matter entirely to her own propen-
sities. Mrs. Grantly had ever loved her daughter
dearly, and had been very proud of that great success
in life which Griselda had achieved ; but in late years,
the child had become, as a woman, separate from the
mother, and there had arisen, not unnaturally, a break
of that close confidence which in early years had ex-
isted between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Har-
tletop, was more than ever a daughter to the archdea-
con, even though he might never see her. Nothing
could rob him of the honour of such a progeny, —
nothing, even though there had been actual estrange-
ment between them. But it was not so with Mrs.
Grantly. Griselda had done very well, and Mrs.
Grantly had rejoiced; but she had lost her child.
Now the major, who had done well also, though in a
much lesser degree, was still her child, moving in the
same sphere of hfe with her, still dependent in a great
degree upon his father's bounty, a neighbour in the
county, a frequent visitor at the parsonage, and a vis-
itor who could be received without any of that trouble
which attended the unfrequent comings of Griselda,
the marchioness, to the home of her youth. And for
this reason Mrs. Grantly, terribly put out as she was at
the idea of a marriage between her son and one stand-
ing so poorly in the world's esteem as Grace Crawley,
would not have brought forward the matter before her
daughter, had she been left to her own desires. A
marchioness in one's family is a tower of strength, no
doubt ; but there are counsellors so strong that we do
not wish to trust them, lest in the trusting we ourselves
be overwhelmed by their strength. Now Mrs. Grantly

22 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

was by no means willing to throw her influence into
the hands of her titled daughter.

But the titled daughter was consulted and gave hei
advice. On the occasion of the present visit to Plum-
stead she had consented to lay her head for two nights
on the parsonage pillows, and on the second evening
her brother the major was to come over from Cosby
Lodge to meet her. Before his coming the affair oi
Grace Crawley was discussed.

" It would break my heart, Griselda," said the arch*
deacon, piteously, — " and your mother's."

" There is nothing against the girPs character," said
Mrs. Grantly, " and the father and mother are gentle*
folks by birth ; but such a marriage for Henry would
be very unseemly."

" To make it worse, there is this terrible story about
him," said the archdeacon.

" I don't suppose there is much in that," said Mrs.
Grantly.

*' I can't say. There is no knowing. They told me
to-day in Barchester that Soames is pressing the case
against him."

" Who is Soames, papa? " asked the marchioness.

" He is Lord Lufton's man of business, my dear."

"Oh, Lord Luf ton's man of business!" There was
something of a sneer in the tone of the lady's voice as
she mentioned Lord Lufton's name.

" I am told," continued the archdeacon, " that
Soames declares the cheque was taken from a pocket-
book which he left by accident in Crawley's house."

'* You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think
that Mr. Crawley, — a clergyman, — stole it!" said Mrs.
Grantly.

" BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! " 23

'* I don't say anything of the kind, my dear. But
supposing Mr. Crawley to be as honest as the sun, you
would n't wish Henry to marry his daughter."

" Certainly not," said the mother. ''It would be an
unfitting marriage. The poor girl has had no advan-
tages."

" He is not able even to pay his baker's bill. I al-
ways thought Arabin was very wrong to place such a
man in such a parish as Hogglestock. Of course the
family could not live there." The Arabin here spoken
of was Dr. Arabin, dean of Barchester. The dean
and the archdeacon had married sisters, and there was
much intimacy between the families.

"After all it is only a rumour as yet," said Mrs.
Grantly.

" Fothergill told me only yesterday, that he sees her
almost every day," said the father. " What are we to
do, Griselda? You know how headstrong Henry is."
The marchioness sat quite still, looking at the fire, and
made no immediate answer to this address.

" There is nothing for it, but that you should tell
him what you think," said the mother.

"If his sister were to speak to him, it might do
much," said the archdeacon. To this Mrs. Grantly said
nothing ; but Mrs. Grantly's daughter understood very
well that her mother's confidence in her was not equal
to her father's. Lady Hartletop said nothing, but still
sat, with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire.
" I think that if you were to speak to him, Griselda,
and tell him that he would disgrace his family, he
would be ashamed to go on with such a marriage,"
said the father. " He would feel, connected as he is
with Lord Hartletop "

24 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" I don't think he would feel anything about that,"
said Mrs. Grantly.

" I dare say not," said Lady Hartletop.

"I am sure he ought to feel it," said the father.
They were all silent, and sat looking at the fire.

"I suppose, papa, you allow Henry an income,"
said Lady Hartletop, after a wnile.

" Indeed I do, — eight hundred a year."

" Then I think I should tell him that that must de-
pend upon his conduct. Mamma, if you won*t mind
ringing the bell, 1 will send for Cecile, and go upstairs
and dress." Then the marchioness went upstairs to
dress, and in about an hour the major arrived in his
dog-cart. He also was allowed to go upstairs to dress
before anything was said to him about his great
offence.

" Griselda is right," said the archdeacon, speaking
to his wife out of his dressing-room. " She always was
right. I never knew a young woman with more sense
than Griselda."

" But you do not mean to say that in any event you
would stop Henry's income? " Mrs. Grantly also was
dressing, and made reply out of her bedroom.

" Upon my word, I don't know. As a father I
would do anything to prevent such a marriage as that."

"But if he did marry her in spite of the threat?
And he would if he had once said so."

" Is a father's word, then, to go for nothing ; and a
father who allows his son eight hundred a year? If
he told the girl that he would be ruined she could n't
hold him to it."

" My dear, they 'd know as well as I do, that you
would give way after three months."

BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT!" 2$

But why should I give way? Good heavens!"
Of course you 'd give way, and of course we
should have the young woman here, and of course we
should make the best of it."

The idea of having Grace Crawley as a daughter at
the Plumstead Rectory was too much for the arch-
deacon, and he sesented it by additional vehemence in
the tone of his voice, and a nearer personal approach
to the wife of his bosom. All unaccoutred as he was,
he stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and
thence fulminated at his wife his assurances that he
would never allow himself to be immersed in such a
depth of humility as that she had suggested. " I can
tell you this, then, that if ever she comes here, I shall
take care to be away. I will never receive her here.
You can do as you please."

" That is just what I cannot do. If I could do as I
pleased, I would put a stop to it at once."

" It seems to me that you want to encoiurage him.
A child about sixteen years of age! "

" I am told she is nineteen."

"What does it matter if she was fifty-nine? Think
of what her bringing up has been. Think what it
would be to have all the Crawleys in our house for
ever, and all their debts, and all their disgrace ! "

"I do not know that they have ever been dis-
graced."

" You '11 see. The whole county has heard of the
affair of this twenty pounds. Look at that dear girl
upstairs, who has been such a comfort to us. Do you
think it would be fit that she and her husband should
meet such a one as Grace Crawley at oiu* table? "

" I don't think it would do them a bit of harm," said

26 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Mrs. Grantly. " But there would be no chance of that,
seeing that Griselda's husband never comes to us."

" He was here the year before last."

**AndI never was so tired of a man in all my life."

"Then you prefer the Crawleys, I suppose. This
is what you get from Eleanor's teaching." Eleanor
was the dean's wife, and Mrs. Grantly's younger sister.
" It has always been a sorrow to me that I ever brought
Arabin into the diocese."

" I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But
nobody was so glad as you when he proposed to
Eleanor."

" Well, the long and short of it is this, I shall tell
Henry to-night that if he makes a fool of himself with
this girl, he must not look to me any longer for an in-
come. He has about six hundred a year of his own,
and if he chooses to throw himself away, he had better
go and live in the south of France, or in Canada, or
where he pleases. He shan't come here."

" I hope he won't marry the girl, with all my heart,"
said Mrs. Grantly.

"He had better not. By heavens, he had better
not!"

" But if he does you '11 be the first to forgive him."

On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door,
and retired to his washing apparatus. At the present
moment he was very angry with his wife, but then she
was so accustomed to such anger, and was so well
aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not
make her unhappy. The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly
had now been man and wife for more than a quarter
of a century, and had never in truth quarrelled. He
had the most profound respect for her judgment, and

BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! " 27

the most implicit reliance on her conduct. She had
never yet offended him, or caused him to repent the
hour in which he had made her Mrs. Grantly. But she
had come to understand that she might use a woman's
privilege with her tongue ; aud she used it, — ^not alto-
gether to his comfort. On the present occasion he was
the more annoyed because he felt that she might be
right. " It would be a positive disgrace, and I never
would see him again," he said to himself. And yet, as
he said it,iie knew that he would not have the strength
of character to carry him through a prolonged quarrel
with his son. " I never would see her, — never, never! "
he said to himself. "And then such an opening as he
might have at his sister's house ! "

Major Grantly had been a successful man in life, —
with the one exception of having lost the mother of his
child within a twelvemonth of his marriage and within
a few hours of that child's birth. He had served in
India as a very young man, and had been decorated
with the Victoria Cross. Then he had married a lady
with some money, and had left the active service of
the army with the concurring advice of his own family
and that of his wife. He had taken a small place in
his father's county, but the wife for whose comfort he
had taken it had died before she was permitted to see
it. Nevertheless he had gone to reside there, hunting
a good deal and*farming a little, making himself popu-
lar in the district, and keeping up the good name of
Grantly in a successful way, till — alas, — it had seemed
good to him to throw those favouring eyes on poor
Grace Crawley. His wife had now been dead just two
years, and as he was still under thirty, no one could
deny it would be right that he should marry again.

28 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

No one did deny it. His father had hinted that he
ought to do so, and had generously whispered that if
some little increase to the major's present income were
needed, he might possibly be able to do something.
" What is the good of keeping it? " the archdeacon had
said in liberal after-dinner warmth. " I only want it
for your brother and yourself." The brother was a
clergyman.

And the major's mother had strongly advised him to
marry again without loss of time. " My dear Henry,"
she had said, "you 'U never be younger, and youth
does go for something. As for dear little Edith, being
a girl, she is almost no impediment. Do you know
those two girls at Chaldicotes? "

What, Mrs. Thome's nieces? "

No; they are not her nieces but her cousins.
Emily Dunstable is very handsome ; — and as for
money — ! "

" But what about birth, mother? "

One can't have everything, my dear."
*As far as I am concerned, I should like w have
everything or nothing," the major had said, laughing.
Now for him to think of Grace Crawley after that, —
of Grace Crawley who had no money, and no particu-
lar birth, and not even beauty itself, — so at least Mrs.
Grantly said, — who had not even enjoyed the ordinary
education of a lady, was too bad. Nothing had been
wanting to Emily Dunstable's education, and it was
calculated that she would have at least twenty thou-
sand pounds on the day of her marriage.

The disappointment to the mother would be the
more sore because she had gone to work upon her
little scheme with reference to Miss Emily Dunstable,

•• BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT ! " 29

and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to suc-
cess, — to success in spite of the disparaging words
which her son had spoken to her. Mrs. Thome's house
at Chaldicotes, — or Dr. Thome's house, as it should,
perhaps, be more properly called, for Dr. Thome was
the husband of Mrs. Thorne, — was in these days the
pleasantest house in Barsetshire. No one saw so much
company as the Thomes, or spent so much money in
so pleasant a way. The great county families, the
Pallisers and the De Courcys, the Luftons and the
Greshams, were no doubt grander, and some of them
were perhaps richer than the Chaldicote Thomes, — as
they were called to distinguish them from the Thomes
of UUathome; but none of these people were so
pleasant in their ways, so free in their hospitality, or so
easy in their modes of living, as the doctor and his
wife. When first Chaldicotes, a very old country-seat,
had by the chances of war fallen into their hands and
been newly furnished, and newly decorated, and newly
gardened, and newly greenhoused and hot- watered by
them, many of the county people had turned up their
noses at them. Dear old Lady Lufton had done so,
and had been greatly grieved, — saying nothing, how-
ever, of her grief, — ^when her son and daughter-in-law
had broken away from her, and submitted themselves
to the blandishments of the doctor's wife. And the
Grantlys had stood aloof, partly influenced, no doubt,
by their dear and intimate old friend Miss Monica
Thorne of UUathome, a lady of the very old school,
who, though good as gold and kind as charity, could
not endure that an interloping Mrs. Thorne, who never
had a grandfather, should come to honom: and glory in
the county, simply because of her riches. Miss Mon-

30 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

ica Thome stood out, but Mrs. Grantly gave way, and
having once given way found that Dr. Thorne, and
Mrs. Thorne, and Emily Dunstable, and Chaldicote
House together, were very charming. And the major
had been once there with her, and had made himself
very pleasant, and there had certainly been some little
passage of incipient love between him and Miss Emily
Dunstable, as to which Mrs. Thome, who managed
everything, seemed to be well pleased. This had been
after the first mention made by Mrs. Grantly to her son
of Emily Dunstable's name, but before she had heard
any faintest whispers of his fancy for Grace Crawley ;
and she had therefore been justified in hoping, — almost
in expecting, that Emily Dunstable would be her
daughter-in-law, and was therefore the more aggrieved
when this terrible Crawley peril first opened itself be-
fore her eyes.

CHAPTER III.

THE archdeacon's THREAT.

The dinner-party at the rectory comprised none but
the Grantly family. The marchioness had written to
say that she preferred to have it so. The father had
suggested that the Thornes of UUathome, very old
friends, might be asked, and the Greshams from Boxall
Hill, and had even promised to endeavour to get old
Lady Lufton over to the rectory, Lady Lufton having
in former years been Griselda's warm friend. But
Lady Hartletop had preferred to see her dear father
and mother in privacy. Her brother Henry she would
be glad to meet, and hoped to make some arrange-
ment with him for a short visit to Hartlebury, her hus-
band's place in Shropshire, — as to which latter hint, it
may, however, be at once said, that nothing fiuther was
spoken after the Crawley alliance had been suggested.
And there had been a very sore point mooted by the
daughter in a request made by her to her father that
she might not be called upon to meet her grandfather,
her mother's father, Mr. Harding, a clergyman of Bar-
chester, who was now stricken in years. — " Papa would
not have come," said Mrs. Grantly, " but I think, — I
do think " Then she stopped herself.

"Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear.
You know how fond I am of having him here myself."

32 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" It does not signify," said Mrs. Grantly. " Do no?
let us say anything more about it. Of course we can*
not have everything. I am told the child does her
duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we ought to
be contented." Then Mrs. Grantly went up to her
own room, and there she cried. Nothing was said to
the major on the unpleasant subject of the Crawleys
before dinner. He met his sister in the drawing-room,
and was allowed to kiss her noble cheek. " I hope
Edith is well, Henry," said the sister. " Quite well ;
and little Dumbello is the same, I hope?" "Thank
you, yes ; quite well." Then there seemed to be noth-
ing more to be said between the two. The major
never made inquiries after the august family, or would
allow it to appear that he was conscious of being shone
upon by the wife of a marquis. Any adulation which
Griselda received of that kind came from her father,
and, therefore, imconsciously she had learned to think
that her father was better bred than the other members
of her family, and more fitted by nature to move in
that sacred circle to which she herself had been exalted.
We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but a
dull affair. Mrs. Grantly strove to carry on the family
party exactly as it would have been carried on had her
daughter married the son of some neighbouring squire ;
but she herself was conscious of the struggle, and the
fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The
rector's servants treated the daughter of the house with
special awe, and the marchioness herself moved, and
spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold magnificence,
which I think had become a second natiu"e with her,
but which was not on that account the less oppressive.
Even the archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that

THE ARCHDEACON'S THREAT. 33

which was so disagreeable to his wife, felt a relief when
he was left alone after dinner with his son. He felt
relieved as his son got up to open the door for his
mother and sister, but was aware at the same time that
he had before him a most difficult and possibly a most
disastrous task. His dear son Henry was not a man
to be talked smoothly out of, or into, any propriety.
He had a will of his own, and having hitherto been a
successful man, who in youth had fallen into few
youthful troubles, — who had never justified his father
in using stem parental authority, — was not now inclined
to bend his neck. " Henry," said the archdeacon,
*' what are you drinking? That *s '34 port, but it 's
not just what it should be. Shall I send for another
bottle? "

" It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass."

" I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you
young fellows have become so desperately temperate."

" We take our wine at dinner, sir."
By-the-bye, how well Griselda is looking."
Yes, she is. It 's always easy for women to look
well when they 're rich." How would Grace Crawley
look, then, who was poor as poverty itself, and who
should remain poor, if his son was fool enough to marry
her? That was the train of thought which ran through
the archdeacon's mind. "I do not think much of
riches," said he, " but it is always well that a gentle-
man's wife or a gentleman's daughter should have a
sufficiency to maintain her position in life."

" You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife
and everybody's daughter."

" You know what I mean, Henry."

" I am not quite sure that I do, sir."

VOL. I. — '6

34 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

*' Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A ru.
mour has reached your mother and me, which we don't
believe for a moment, but which, nevertheless, makes
us unhappy even as a report. They say that there is
a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you
are becoming attached."

"Is there any reason why I should not become
attached to a young woman in Silverbridge? — though
I hope any young woman to whom I may become
attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a
young lady."

" I hope so, Henry ; I hope so. I do hope so."

'* So much I will promise, sir ; but I will promise
nothing more."

The archdeacon looked across into his son's face,
and his heart sank within him. His son's voice and
his son's eyes seemed to tell him two things. They
seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace
Crawley was true ; and, secondly, that the major was
resolved not to be talked out of his folly. " But you
are not engaged to any one, are you? " said the arch-
deacon. The son did not at first make any answer,
and then the father repeated the question. " Consider-
ing our mutual positions, Henry, I think you ought to
tell me if you are engaged."

" I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should
have taken the first opportunity of telling either you or
my mother."

" Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out
more plainly. The young woman whose name I have
heard is daughter to that Mr. Crawley who is perpetual
curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be
nothing in it."

THE archdeacon's THREAT. 35

" But there is something in it, sir."

"What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense.
Henry. What is it you mean? "

" It is rather hard to be cross-questioned in this way
on such a subject. When you express yourself as
thankful that there is nothing in the rumour, I am
forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible that
hereafter you may say that I have deceived you."
But you don't mean to marry her? "
I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to
do so."

" Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in
love with Miss Crawley? " Then there was another
pause, dming which the archdeacon sat looking for an
answer ; but the major said never a word. "Am I to
suppose that you intend to lower yourself by marrying
a young woman who cannot possibly have enjoyed any
of the advantages of a lady's education? I say noth-
ing of the imprudence of the thing; nothing of her
own want of fortune ; nothing of your having to main-
tain a whole family steeped in poverty ; nothing of the
debts and character of the father, upon whom, as I
understand, at this moment there rests a very grave
suspicion of — of — of — what I 'm afraid I must call
downright theft."

Downright theft, certainly, — ^if he were guilty."
I say nothing of all that ; but looking at the young
woman herself — "

" She is simply the best educated girl whom it has
ever been my lot to meet."

" Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be
honest with me."

" I am honest with you."

36 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARStcT.

" Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you? "

'* I do not think that you have any right to ask me
that question, sir."

" I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if
you so far disgrace yourself and me, I shall consider
myself bound to withdraw from you all the sanction
which would be conveyed by my — ^my — ^my continued
assistance."

"Do you intend me to understand that you will
stop my income? "

" Certainly I should."

" Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most
cruelly. You advised me to give up my profession."

" Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley."

** I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as
I please in such a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley
is a lady. Her father is a clergyman, as is mine. Her
father's oldest friend is my uncle. There is nothing on
earth against her except her poverty. I do not think
I ever heard of such cruelty on a father's part."

" Very well, Henry."

" I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, al-
ways ; and by my mother. You can treat me in this
way, if you please, but it will not have any effect on
my conduct. You can stop my allowance to-morrow,
if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to
make an offer to Miss Crawley, but I shall now do so
to-morrow morning."

This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was
extremely unhappy. He was by no means at hearj; a
cruel man. He loved his children dearly. If this disa-
greeable marriage were to take place, he would doubt-
less do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would

THE archdeacon's THREAT. 37

not Stop his son's income for a single quarter ; and,
though he went on telling himself that he would stop
it, he knew in his own heart that any such severity was
beyond his power. He was a generous man in money
matters, — Shaving a dislike for poverty which was not
generous, — and for his own sake could not have en-
dured to see a son of his in want. But he was terribly
anxious to exercise the power which the use of the
threat might give him. " Henry," he said, " you are
treating me badly, very badly. My anxiety has always
been for the welfare of my children. Do you think that
Miss Crawley would be a fitting sister-in-law for that
dear girl upstairs? "

" Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the
world; — excepting that Griselda, who is not clever,
would hardly be able to appreciate Miss Crawley, who
is clever."

" Griselda not clever! Good heavens! " Then there
was another pause, and as the major said nothing, the
father continued his entreaties. " Pray, pray think of
what my wishes are, and yoiu: mother's. You are not
committed as yet. Pray think of us while there is time.
I would rather double your income if I saw you marry
any one that we could name here."

" I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to
know that it will not be capriciously withdrawn." The
archdeacon filled his glass unconsciously, and sipped
his wine, while he thought what further he might say.
Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothing
further at the present moment. The major, however,
was indiscreet, and pushed the question. " May I un-
derstand, sir, that your threat is withdrawn, and that
my income is secure? "

38 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

What, if you marry this girl? "
Yes, sir ; will my income be continued to me if I
marry Miss Crawley? "

" No ; it will not." Then the father got up hastily,
pushed the decanter back angrily from his hand, and
without saying another word walked away into the
drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was very
gloomy. The archdeacon now and again said a word
or two to his daughter, and his daughter answered him
in monosyllables. The major sat apart moodily, and
spoke to no one. Mrs. Grantly, understanding well
what had passed, knew that nothing could be done at
the present moment to restore family comfort ; so she
sat by the fire and knitted. Exactly at ten they all
went to bed.

" Dear Henry," said the mother to her son the next
morning ; " think much of yourself, and of your child,
and of us, before you take any great step in life."

" I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put
on his wrapper, and got into his dog-cart, and drove
himself off to Silverbridge. He had not spoken to his
father since they were in the dining-room on the previ-
ous evening. When he started, the marchioness had
not yet come downstairs; but at eleven she break-
fasted, and at twelve she also was taken away. Poor
Mrs. Grantly had not had much comfort from her
children's visits.

CHAPTER IV.

THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK.

Mrs. Crawley had walked from Hogglestock to
Silverbridge on the occasion of her visit to Mr. Walker,
the attorney, and had been kindly sent back by that
gentleman in his wife's little open carriage. The tid-
ings she brought home with her to her husband were
very grievous. The magistrates would sit on the next
Thursday, — ^it was then Friday, — ^and Mr. Crawley had
better appear before them to answer the charge made
by Mr. Soames. He would be served with a summons,
which he could obev of his own accord. There had

been many points very closely discussed between
Walker and Mrs. Crawley « as to which there had been
great difficulty in the choice oi; words which should be
tender enough in regard lo the feelings of the poor
lady, and yet strong enough to convey to her the very
facts as they stood. Would Mr. Crawley come, or
must a policeman be sent to fetch him? The magis-
trates had already issued a warrant for his apprehen-
sion. Such in truth was the fact, but they had agreed
with Mr. Walker, that as there was no reasonable
ground for anticipating any attempt at escape on the
part of the reverend gentleman, the lawyer might use
what gentle means he could for ensuring the clergy-
man's attendance. Could Mrs. Crawley undertake to

40 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

say that he would appear? Mrs. Crawley did under-
take either that her husband should appear on the
Thursday, or else that she would send over in the early
part of the week and declare her inability to ensure his
appearance. In that case it was understood the police-
man must come. Then Mr. Walker had suggested that
Mr. Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Upon this
Mrs. Crawley had looked beseechingly up into Mr.
Walker's face, and had asked him to undertake the
duty. He was of course obliged to explain that he
was already employed on the other side. Mr. Soames
had secured his services, and though he was willing to
do all in his power to mitigate the sufferings of the
family, he could not abandon the duty he had under-
taken. He named another attorney, however, and
then sent the poor woman home in his wife's carriage.
" I fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I fear he is,"
Mr. Walker had said to his wife within ten minutes of
the departure of the visitor.

Mrs. Crawley would not allow herself to be driven
up to the garden gate before her own house, but had
left the carriage some three hundred yards off, down
the road, and from thence she walked home. It was
now quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on
a wet December night, and although cloaks and shawls
had been supplied to her, she was wet and cold when
she reached her home. But at such a moment,
anxious as she was to prevent the additional evil which
would come to them all from illness to herself, she
could not pass through to her room till she had spoken
to her husband. He was sitting in the one sitting-room
on the left side of the passage as the house was entered,
and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now

THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 41

nearly sixteen years of age. There was no light in the
room, and hardly more than a spark of fire showed it-
self in the grate. The father was sitting on one side
of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and there he had
sat for tlie last hour without speaking. His daughter
had been in and out of the room, and had endeavoured
to gain his attention now and again by a word, but he
had never answered her, and had not even noticed her
presence. At the moment when Mrs. Crawley's step
was heard upon the gravel which led to the door, Jane
was kneeling before the fire with a hand upon her
father's arm. She had tried to get her hand into his,
but he had either been unaware of the attempt, or had
rejected it.

" Here is mamma, at last," said Jane, rising to her
feet as her mother entered the house.

" Are you all in the dark? " said Mrs. Crawley, striv-
ing to speak in a voice that should not be sorrowful.

" Yes, mamma ; we are in the dark. Papa is here.
Oh, mamma, how wet you are! "

" Yes, dear. It is raining. Get a light out of the
kitchen, Jane, and I will go upstairs in two minutes."
Then, when Jane was gone, the wife made her way in
the dark over to her husband's side, and spoke a word
to him. " Josiah," she said, " will you not speak to
me?"

"What should I speak about? Where have you
been?"

" I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr.
Walker. He, at any rate, is very kind."

"I do not want his kindness. I want no man's
kindness. Mr. Walker is the attorney, I believe.
Kind, indeed ! "

43 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

t€

I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we
can in this trouble. We have had others as heavy
before."

" But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well ;
what am I to do? Am I to go to prison — to-night? "
At this moment his daughter returned with a candle,
and the mother could not make her answer at once.
It was a wretched, poverty-stricken room. By degrees
the carpet had disappeared, which had been laid down
some nine or ten years since, when they had first come
to Hogglestock, and which even then had not been
new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained
in front of the fireplace. In the middle of the room
there was a table which had once been large ; but one
flap of it was gone altogether, and the other flap sloped
grievously towards the floor, the weakness of old age
having fallen into its legs. There were two or three
smaller tables about, but they stood propped against
walls, thence obtaining a security which their own
strength would not give them. At the further end of
the room there was an ancient piece of furniture, which
was always called papa's "secretary," at which Mr.
Crawley customarily sat and wrote his sermons, and
did all work that was done by him within his house.
The man who had made it, some time in the last cen-
tury, had intended it to be a locked guardian for do-
mestic documents, and the receptacle for all that was
most private in the house of some paterfamilias. But
beneath the hands of Mr. Crawley it always stood
open ; and with the exception of the small space at
which he wrote, was covered with dog's-eared books,
from nearly all of which the covers had disappeared.
There were there two odd volumes of Euripides, a

THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 43

Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar,
and a miniature Anacreon. There was half a Horace,
— the two first books of the Odes at the beginning, and
the De Arte Poetica at the end having disappeared.
There was a Httle bit of a volume of Cicero, and there
were Caesar's Commentaries, in two volumes, so stoutly
boimd that they had defied the combined ill-usage of
time and the Crawley family. All these were piled
upon the secretary, with many others,-^odd volumes
of sermons and the like ; but the Greek and Latin lay
at the top, and showed signs of most frequent use.
There was one arm-chair in the room, — a Windsor-
chair, as such used to be called, made soft by an old
cushion in the back, in which Mr. Crawley sat when
both he and his wife were in the room, and Mrs. Craw-
ley when he was absent. And there was an old horse-
hair sofa, — ^now almost denuded of its horsehair, — ^but
that, like the tables, required the assistance of a friendly
wall. Then there was half-a-dozen of other chairs, —
all of different sorts, — and they completed the furniture
of the room. It was not such a room as one would
wish to see inhabited by a beneficed clergyman of the
Church of England ; but they who know what money
will do and what it will not, will understand how easily
a man with a family, and with a hundred and thirty
pounds a year, may be brought to the need of inhabit-
ing such a chamber. When it is remembered that
three pounds of meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will
cost over forty pounds a year, there need be no diffi-
culty in understanding that it may be so. Bread for
such a family must cost at least twenty-five pounds.
Clothes for five persons, of whom one must at any rate
wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found

44 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

for less than ten pounds a year a head. Then there
remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, beer, wages, edu-
cation, amusements, and the like. In such circum-
stances a gentleman can hardly pay much for the
renewal of his furniture!

Mrs. Crawley could not answer her husband's ques-
tion before her daughter, and was therefore obliged to
make another excuse for again sending her out of the
room. " Jane, dear," she said, " bring my things down
to the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I
will be there in two minutes, when I have had a word
with your papa." The girl went immediately, and then
Mrs. Crawley answered her husband's question. " No,
my dear ; there is no question of your going to prison."

" But there will be."

"I have undertaken that you shall attend before
the magistrates at Silverbridge on Thursday next, at
twelve o'clock. You will do that? "

" Do it! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must
go there. Is anybody to come and fetch me? "

" Nobody will come. Only you must promise that
you will be there. I have promised for you. You
will go ; will you not? " She stood leaning over him,
half -embracing him, waiting for an answer ; but for a
while he gave none. " You will tell me that you will
do what I have undertaken for you, Josiah? "

" I think I would rather that they fetched me. I
think that I will not go myself."

" And have policemen come for you into the parish I
Mr. Walker has promised that he will send over his
phaeton. He sent me home in it to-day."

" I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk.
If it were ten times the distance, and though I had not

THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 45

a shoe left to my feet, I would walk. If I go there at
all, of my own accord, I will walk there."

"But you will go?"

"What do I care for the parish? What matters it
who sees me now? I cannot be degraded worse than
I am. Everybody knows it."

" There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife.

" Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes.
The children know of it, and I hedr their whispers in
the school, ' Mr. Crawley has taken some money.' I
heard the girl say it myself."

"What matters what the girl says? "

" And yet you would have me go in a fine carriage
to Silverbridge, as though to a wedding. If I am
wanted there let them take me as they would another.
I ?hall be here for them, — ^unless I am dead."

\t this moment Jane reappeared, pressing her
mother to take off her wet clothes, and Mrs. Crawley
went with her daughter to the kitchen. The one red-
armed young girl who was their only servant was sent
away, and then the mother and child discussed how
best they might prevail with the head of the family.
" But, mamma, it must come right ; must it not? "

" I trust it will. I think it will. But I cannot see
my way as yet."

" Papa cannot have done anything wrong."

" No, my dear ; he has done nothing wrong. He
has made great mistakes, and it is hard to make people
understand that he has not intentionally spoken un-
truths. He is ever thinking of other things, about the
school, and his sermons, and he does not remember."

"And about how poor we are, mamma."

" He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets

46 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

things which dwell in the memory with other people.
He said that he had got this money from Mr. Soames,
and of course he thought that it was so."

And where did he get it, mamma? "

Ah, — I wish I knew. I should have said that I
had seen every shilling that came into the house ; but
I know nothing of this cheque, — ^whence it came."
" But will not papa tell you? "
" He would tell me if he knew. He thinks it came
from the dean."

And are you sure it did not? "

Yes ; quite sure ; as sure as I can be of anything.
The dean told me he would give him fifty pounds, and
the fifty pounds came. I had them in my own hands.
And he has written to say that it was so."

But could n*t this be part of the fifty pounds? "

No, dear, no."

Then where did papa get it? Perhaps he picked
it up, and has forgotten? "

To this Mrs. Crawley made no reply. The idea
that the cheque had been found by her husband, — ^had
been picked up as Jane had said, — ^had occurred also
to Jane's mother. Mr. Soames was confident that he
had dropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs.
Crawley had always disliked Mr. Soames, thinking him
to be hard, cruel, and vulgar. She would not have
hesitated to beUeve him guilty of a falsehood, or even
of direct dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her
own mind have found the means of reconciling her
husband's possession of the cheque with absolute truth
on his part. But she could not do so. Even though
Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slipped
the cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done

THE CLERGYMAN S HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 47

SO would not account for her husband's having used
the cheque when he found it there. She was driven
to make excuses for him which, valid as they might be
with herself, could not be vahd with others. He had
said that Mr. Soames had paid the cheque to him.
That was clearly a mistake. He had said that the
cheque had been given to him by the dean. That was
clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she
knew, that he, being such as he was, might make such
blunders as these, and yet be true. She believed that
such statements might be blunders and not falsehoods,
— so convinced was she that her husband's mind would
not act at all times as do the minds of other men.
But having such a conviction she was driven to believe
also that almost anything might be possible. Soames
may have been right, or he might have dropped, not
the book, but the cheque. She had no difficulty in
presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by
so supposing she could make the exculpation of her
husband easier to herself. If villany on the part of
Soames was needful to her theory, Soames would be-
come to her a villain at once, — of the blackest dye.
Might it not be possible that the cheque having thus
fallen into her husband's hands, he had come, after a
while, to think that it had been sent to him by his
friend, the dean? And if it were so, would it be pos-
sible to make others so believe? That there was some
mistake which would be easily explained were her hus-
band's mind lucid at all points, but which she could
not explain because of the darkness of his mind, she
was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to
put forward such a defence on her husband's part, she
would, in doing so, be driven to say that he was a

48 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

lunatic, — that he was incapable of managing the affairs
of himself or his family. It seemed to her that she
would be compelled to have him proved to be either a
thief or a madman. And yet she knew that he was
neither. That he was not a thief was as clear to her
as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain on the
man's bosom for twenty years, and not yet have learned
the secrets of the heart beneath? The whole mind
of the man was, as she told herself, within her grasp.
He might have taken the twenty pounds; he might
have taken it and spent it, though it was not his own ;
but yet he was no thief. Nor was he a madman. No
man more sane in, preaching the gospel of his Lord, in
making intelligible to the ignorant the promises of his
Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught in a
parish school. The intelle<;t of the man was as clear
as running water in all things not appertaining to his
daily life and its difficulties. He could be logical with
a vengeance, — so logical as to cause infinite trouble to
his wife, who, with all her good sense, was not logical.
And he had Greek at his fingers* ends, — as his daugh-
ter knew very well. And even to this day he would
sometimes recite to them English poetry, lines after
lines, stanzas upon stanzas, in a sweet, low, melancholy
voice, on long winter evenings when occasionally the
burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than was
usual. Books in Latin and in French he read with as
much ease as in English, and took delight in such as
came to him, when he would condescend to accept
such loans from the deanery. And there was at times
a lightness of heart about the man. In the course of
the last winter he had translated into Greek irregular
verse the very noble ballad of Lord Bateman, main*

THE clergyman's HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK. 49

taining the rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeated
it with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by
heart. And when there had come to him a five-pound
note from some admiring magazine editor as the price
of the same, — still through the dean's hands, — ^he had
brightened up his heart, and had thought for an hour
or two that even yet the world would smile upon him.
His wife knew well that he was not mad ; but yet she
knew that there were dark moments with him, in which
his mind was so much astray that he could not justly
be called to account as to what he might remember
and what he might forget. How would it be possible
to explain all this to a judge and jury, so that they
might neither say that he was dishonest, nor yet that
he was mad ? " Perhaps he picked it up, and had for-
gotten," her daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so,
but she might not as yet admit as much even to her
child.

" It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid,
will be unravelled. Of one thing we at least may be
sure ; that your papa has not wilfully done anything
wrong."

" Of course we are sure of that, mamma."
Mrs. Crawley had many troubles during the next
four or five days, of which the worst, perhaps, had
reference to the services of the Sunday which intervened
between the day of her visit to Silverbridge, and the
sitting of the magistrates. On the Saturday it was
necessary that he should prepare his sermons, of which
he preached two on every Sunday, though his congre-
gation consisted only of farmers, brickmakers, and
agricultural labourers who would willingly have dis-
pensed with the second. Mrs. Crawley proposed to

TOL. I. — 4

* ^

50 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

send over to Mr. Robarts, a neighbouring clergyman,
for the loan of a curate. Mr. Robarts was a warm
friend to the Crawleys, and in such an emergency
would probably have come himself ; but Mr. Crawley
would not hear of it. The discussion took place early
on the Saturday morning, before it was as yet daylight,
for the poor woman was thinking day and night of her
husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, that
immediately after breakfast he seated himself at his
desk, and worked at his task as though he had forgot-
ten all else in the world.

And on the Sunday morning he went into his school
before the hour of the church service, as had been his
wont, and taught there as though everything with him
was as usual. Some of the children were absent, hav-
ing heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been
told probably that he would remit his work ; and for
these absent ones he sent in great anger. The poor
bairns came creeping in, for he was a man who by his
manners had been able to secure their obedience in
spite of his poverty. And he preached to the people
of his parish on that Sunday, as he had always preached ;
eagerly, clearly, with an eloquence fitted for the hearts
of such an audience. No one would have guessed
from his tones and gestures and appearance on that
occasion, that there was aught wrong with him, — ^un-
less there had been there some observer keen enough
to perceive that the greater care which he used, and
the special eagerness of his words, denoted a special
frame of mind.

After that, after those church services were over, he
sank again, and never roused himself till the dreaded
day had come.

CHAPTER V.

WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

Opinion in Silverbridge, at Barchester, and through-
out the county, was very much divided as to the guilt
or innocence of Mr. Crawley. Up to the time of Mrs.
Crawley's visit to Silverbridge, the affair had not been
much discussed. To give Mr. Soames his due, he had
been by no means anxious to press the matter against
the clergyman ; but he had been forced to go on with
it. While the first cheque was missing Lord Lufton
had sent him a second cheque for the money, and the
loss had thus fallen upon his lordship. The cheque
had of course been traced, and inquiry had of course
been made as to Mr. Crawley's possession of it. When
that gentleman declared that he had received it from
Mr. Soames, Mr. Soames had been forced to contra-
dict and to resent such an assertion. When Mr. Craw-
ley had afterwards said that the money had come to
him from the dean, and when the dean had shown that
this also was untrue, Mr. Soames, confident as he was
that he had dropped the pocket-book at Mr. Crawley's
house, could not but continue the investigation. He
had done so with as much silence as the nature of the
work admitted. But by the day of the magistrates'
meeting at Silverbridge the subject had become com-
mon through the county, and men's minds were very
much divided.

52 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

All Hogglestock believed their parson to be inno-
cent; but then all Hogglestock believed him to be
mad. At Silverbridge the tradesmen with whom he
had dealt, and to whom he had owed, and still owed,
money, all declared him to be innocent. They knew
something of the man personally, and could not believe
him to be a thief. All the ladies in Silverbridge, too,
were sure of his innocence. It was to them impossible
that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds.
"My dear," said the eldest Miss Prettyman to poor
Grace Crawley, " in England, where the laws are good,
no gentleman is ever made out to be guilty when he
is innocent; and your papa, of course, is innocent.
Therefore you should not trouble yourself." " It will
break papa's heart," Grace had said, and she did
trouble herself. But the gentlemen in Silverbridge
were made of sterner stuff, and believed the man to be
guilty, clergyman and gentleman though he was. Mr.
Walker, who among the lights in Silverbridge was the
leading light, would not speak a word upon the sub-
ject to anybody ; and then everybody, who was any-
body, knew that Mr. Walker was convinced of the
man's guilt. Had Mr. Walker believed him to be in-
nocent, his tongue would have been ready enough.
John Walker, who was in the habit of laughing at his
father's good-nature, had no doubt upon the subject.
Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Walker's partner, shook his head.
People did not think much of Mr. Winthrop, excepting
certain unmarried ladies; for Mr. Winthrop was a
bachelor, and had plenty of money. People did not
think much of Mr. Winthrop ; but still on this subject
he might know something, and when he shook his head
he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. And Dr.

WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 53

Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to
declare his behef in the guilt of the incumbent of
Hogglestock. No man reverences a clergyman, as a
clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergyman. To
Dr. Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange
nor very terrible that Mr. Crawley should have stolen
twenty pounds. "What is a man to do," he said,
"when he sees his children starving? He should not
have married on such a preferment as that." Mr.
Crawley had married, however, long before he got the
living of Hogglestock.

There were two Lady Luftons, — ^mother-in-law and
daughter-in-law, — who at this time were living together
at Framley Hall, Lord Lufton's seat in the county of
Barset, and they were both thoroughly convinced of
Mr. Crawley's innocence. The elder lady had lived
much among clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by
any means have been brought to believe in the guilt of
any man who had taken upon himself the orders of
the Church of England. She had also known Mr.
Crawley personally for some years, and was one of
those who could not admit to herself that any one was
vile who had been near to herself. She believed in-
tensely in the wickedness of the outside world, of the
world which was far away from herself, and of which
she never saw anything ; but they who were near to
her, and who had even become dear to her, or who
even had been respected by her, were made, as it were,
saints in her imagination. They were brought into
the inner circle, and could hardly be expelled. She
was an old woman who thought all evil of those she
did not know, and all good of those whom she did
know; and as she did know Mr. Crawley, she was

54 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

quite sure he had not stolen Mr. Soames's twenty
pounds. She did know Mr. Soames also ; and thus
there was a mystery for the unravelling of which she
was very anxious. And the young Lady Lufton was
equally as sure, and perhaps with better reason for
such certainty. She had, in truth, known more of Mr.
Crawley personally, than had any one in the county,
unless it was the dean. The younger Lady Lufton,
the present Lord Lufton's wife, had sojourned at one
time in Mr. Crawley's house, amidst the Crawley pov-
erty, living as they lived, and nursing Mrs. Crawley
through an illness which had well-nigh been fatal to
her; and the younger Lady Lufton believed in Mr.
Crawley ; — ^as Mr. Crawley also believed in her.

" It is quite impossible, my dear," the old woman
said to her daughter-in-law.

" Quite impossible, my lady." The dowager was
always called " my lady," both by her own daughter
and by her son's wife except in the presence of their
children, when she was addressed as " grandmamma."
" Think how well I knew him. It 's no use talking of
evidence. No evidence would make me believe it."

" Nor me ; and I think it a great shame that such a
report should be spread about."

" I suppose Mr. Soames could not help himself? "
said the younger lady, who was not herself very fond
of Mr. Soames.
s " Ludovic says that he has only done what he was

obliged to do." The Ludovic spoken of was Lord
I Lufton.

This took place in the morning ; but in the evening
the affair was again discussed at Framley Hall. In-
deed, for some days, there was hardly any other sub-

WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 55

ject held to be worthy of discussion in the county.
Mr. Robarts, the clergyman of the parish and the
brother of the younger Lady Lufton, was dining at
the hall with his wife, and the three ladies had together
expressed their perfect conviction of the falseness of
the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr.
Robarts were together after the ladies had left them
there was much less of this certainty expressed. " By
Jove," said Lord Lufton, " I don't know what to think
of it. I wish with all my heart that Soames had said
nothing about it, and that the cheque had passed
without remark."

" That was impossible. When the banker sent to
Soames, he was obliged to take the matter up."

*' Of course he was. But I 'm sorry that it was so.
For the life of me I can't conceive how the cheque got
into Crawley's hands-"

" I imagine that it had been lying in the house, and
that Crawley had come to think that it was his own."

" But, my dear Mark," said Lord Lufton, " excuse
me if I say that that 's nonsense. What do we do
when a poor man has come to think that another man's
property is his own? We send him to prison for mak-
ing the mistake."

" I hope they won't send Crawley to prison."
I hope so too ; but what is a jury to do? "
You think it will go to a jury, then? "

" I do,*' said Lord Lufton. " I don't see how the
magistrates can save themselves from committing him.
It is one of those cases in which every one concerned
would wish to drop it if it were only possible. But it
is not possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at
present, one is bound to say that it is a case for a jury."

56 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

I believe that he is mad," said the brother parson.

He always was, as far as I could leam," said
the lord. "I never knew him, myself. You do, I
think? "

" Oh, yes. I know him." And the vicar of Fram-
ley became silent and thoughtful as the memory of a
certain interview between himself and Mr. Crawley
came back upon his mind. At that time the waters
had nearly closed over his head, and Mr. Crawley had
given him some help in his way. When the gentlemen
had again found the ladies, they kept their own doubts
to themselves ; for at Framley Hall, as at present ten-
anted, female voices and female influences predomi-
nated over those which came from the other sex.

At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in
which the Crawleys lived, opinion was violently against
Mr. Crawley. In the city, Mrs. Proudie, the wife of
the bishop, was the leader of opinion in general, and
she was very strong in her belief of the man's guilt
She had known much of clergymen all her life, as it
behoved a bishop's wife to do, and she had none of
that mingled weakness and ignorance which taught so
many ladies in Barsetshire to suppose that an ordained
clergyman could not become a thief. She hated old
Lady Lufton with all her heart, and old Lady Lufton
hated her as warmly. Mrs. Proudie would say fre-
quently that Lady Lufton was a conceited old idiot,
and Lady Lufton would declare as frequentiy that
Mrs. Proudie was a vulgar virago. It was known at
the palace in Barchester that kindness had been shown
to the Crawleys by the family at Framley Hall, and
this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs.
Proudie believe that Mr. Crawley could have been

WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 57

guilty of any crime. And as Mrs. Proudie believed,
SO did the bishop believe. "It is a terrible disgrace
to the diocese," said the bishop, shaking his head, and
patting his apron as he sat by his study fire.
"Fiddlestick!" said Mrs. Proudie.

But, my dear, — -a beneficed clergyman!"

You must get rid of him ; that 's all. You must
be firm whether he be acquitted or convicted."

" But if he be acquitted, I cannot get rid of him,
my dear."

" Yes, you can, if you are firm. And you must be
firm. Is it not true that he has been disgracefully in-
volved in debt ever since he has been there ; that you
have been pestered by letters from unfortunate trades-
men who cannot get their money from him? "

That is true, my dear, certainly."

And is that kind of thing to go on? He cannot
come to the palace as all clergymen should do, because
he has got no clothes to come in. I saw him once
about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on such an
object in my life! I would not believe that the man
was a clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace
to the diocese, and he must be got rid of. I feel sure
of his guilt, and I hope he will be convicted. But if
he escape conviction, you must sequestrate the living
because of the debts. The income is enough to get
an excellent curate. It would just do for Thumble."
To all of which the bishop made no further reply, but
simply nodded his head and patted his apron. He
knew that he could not do exactly what his wife re-
quired of him ; but if it should so turn out that poor
Crawley was found to be guilty, then the matter would
be comparatively easy.

58 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

"It should be an example to us, that we should
look to our own steps, my dear," said the bishop.

" That 's all very well," said Mrs. Proudie, " but it
has become your duty, and mine too, to look to the
steps of other people ; and that duty we must do."

" Of course, my dear ; of course." That was the
tone in which the question of Mr. Crawley's alleged
guilt was discussed at the palace.

We have already heard what was said on the subject
at the house of Archdeacon Grantly. As the days
passed by, and as other tidings came in, confirmatory
of those which had before reached him, the archdeacon
felt himself unable not to believe in the man's guilt.
And the fear which he entertained as to his son's in-
tended marriage with Grace Crawley tended to increase
the strength of his belief. Dr. Grantly had been a
very successful man of the world, and on all ordinary-
occasions had been able to show that bold front with
which success endows a man. But he still had his
moments of weakness, and feared greatly lest anything
of misfortune should touch him, and mar the comely
roundness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy.
The wife of his bosom had been to him all that a wife
should be. His reputation in the clerical world stood
very high. He had lived all his life on terms of equal-
ity with the best of the gentry around him. His only
daughter had made a splendid marriage. His two
sons had hitherto done well in the world, not only as
regarded their happiness, but as to marriage also, and
as to social standing. But how great would be the
fall if his son should at last marry the daughter of a
convicted thief! How would the Proudies rejoice
over him, — the Proudies who had been crushed to the

WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 59

ground by the success of the Hartletop alliance ; and
how would the low-church ciu"ates who swarmed in
Barsetshire, gather together and scream in delight over
his dismay! "But why should we say that he is
guilty?" said Mrs. Grantly.

" It hardly matters, as far as we are concerned,
whether they find him guilty or not," said the arch-
deacon. "If Henry marries that giii my heart will
be broken."

But perhaps to no one except to the Crawleys them-
selves had the matter caused so much terrible anxiety
as to the archdeacon's son. He had told his father
that he had made no offer of marriage to Grace Craw-
ley, and he had told the truth. But there are perhaps
few men who make such offers in direct terms without
having already said and done that which makes such
offers simply necessary as the final closing of an ac-
cepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major
Grantly and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly ac-
knowledged to himself that it was so. He acknowl-
edged also to himself that as regarded Grace herself
he had no wish to get back from his implied intentions.
Nothing that either his father or mother might say
would shake him in that. But could it be his duty to
bind himself to the family of a convicted thief? Could
it be right that he should disgrace his father and his
mother and his sister and his one child by such a con-
nection? He had a man's heart, and the poverty of
the Crawleys caused him no solicitude. But he shrank
from the contamination of a prison.

CHAPTER VI.

GRACE CRAWLEY.

It has already been said that Grace Crawley was at
this time living with the two Miss Prettymans, who
kept a girls* school at Silverbridge. Two more benig-
nant ladies than the Miss Prettymans never presided
over such an establishment. The yomiger was fat, and
fresh, and fair, and seemed to be always running over
with the milk of human kindness. The other was
very thin and very small, and somewhat afflicted with
bad health ; — ^was weak, too, in the eyes, and subject
to racking headaches, so that it was considered gener-
ally that she was unable to take much active part in
the education of the pupils. But it was considered as
generally that she did all the thinking, that she knew
more than any other woman in Barsetshire, and that
all the Prettyman schemes for education emanated
from her mind. It was said, too, by those who knew
them best, that her sister's good-natiu*e was as nothing
to hers ; that she was the most charitable, the most
loving, and the most conscientious of schoolmistresses.
This was Miss Annabella Prettyman, the elder ; and
perhaps it may be inferred that some portion of her
great character for virtue may have been due to the
fa^t that nobody ever saw her out of her own house.

She could not even go to church because the open

GRACE CRAWLEY. 6 1

air brought on neuralgia. She was therefore perhaps
taken to be magnificent, partly because she was un-
known. Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went
about frequently to tea-parties, — would go, indeed, to
any party to which she might be invited; and was
known to have a pleasant taste for pouhd-cake and
sweetmeats. Being seen so much in the outer world,
she became common, and her character did not stand
so high as did that of her sister. Some people were
ill-natured enough to say that she wanted to marry
Mr. Winthrop ; but of what maiden lady that goes out
into the world are not such stories told? And all such
stories in Silverbridge were told with special reference
to Mr. Winthrop.

Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Pretty-
mans and assisted them in the school. This arrange-
ment had been going on for the last twelve months,
since the time in which Grace would have left the
school in the natural com^e of things. There had been
no bargain made, and no intention that Grace should
stay. She had been invited to fill the place of an ab-
sent superintendent, first for one month, then for an-
other, and then for two more months ; and when the
assistant came back, the Miss Prettymans thought there
were reasons why Grace should be asked to remain a
little longer. But they took great care to let the fash-
ionable world of Silverbridge know that Grace Crawley
was a visitor with them, and not a teacher. " We pay
her no salary, or anything of that kind," said Miss
Anne Prettyman ; a statement, however, which was by
no means true, for during those four months the regu-
lar stipend had been paid to her ; and twice since then.
Miss Annabella Prettyman, who managed all the money

6a THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

matters, had called Grace into her little room, and had
made a little speech, and had put a little bit of paper
into her hand. " I know I ought not to take it," Grace
had said to her friend Anne. " If I was not here, there
would be no one in my place." " Nonsense, my dear,"
Anne Prettyman had said ; " it is the greatest comfort
to us in the world. And you should make yourself
nice, you know, for his sake. All the gentlemen like
it." Then Grace had been very angry and had sworn
that she would give the money back again. Never-
theless, I think she did make herself as nice as she
knew how to do. And from all this it may be seen
that the Miss Prettymans had hitherto quite approved
of Major Grantly*s attentions.

But when this terrible affair came on about the
cheque which had been lost and found and traced to
Mr. Crawley's hands. Miss Anne Prettyman said noth-
ing further to Grace Crawley about Major Grantly.
It was not that she thought that Mr. Crawley was
guilty, but she knew enough of the world to be aware
that suspicion of such guilt might compel such a man
as Major Grantly to change his mind. " If he had
only popped," Anne said to her sister, " it would have
been all right. He would never have gone back from
his word." " My dear," said Annabella, " I wish you
would not talk about popping. It is a terrible word."
" I shouldn't, to any one except you," said Anne.

There had come to Silverbridge some few months
since, on a visit to Mrs. Walker, a young lady from
Alb'ngton, in the neighbouring county, between whom
and Grace Crawley there had grown up from circum-
stances a warm friendship, Grace had a cousin in
London, — a clerk high up and well-to-do in a public

GRACE CRAWLEY. 63

office, a nephew of her mother's, — and this cousin was,
and for years had been, violently smitten in love for
this young lady. But the young lady's tale had been
sad, and though she acknowledged feelings of most
affectionate friendship for the cousin, she could not
bring herself to acknowledge more. Grace Crawley
had met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had
been spoken about the cousin ; and though the young
lady from AUington was some years older than Grace,
there had grown up to be a friendship, and, as is not
uncommon between young ladies, there had been an
agreement that they would correspond. The name of
the lady was Miss Lily Dale, and the name of the well-
to-do cousin in London was Mr. John Eames.

At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with
her mother at Allington, and Grace Crawley in her
terrible sorrow wrote to her friend, pouring out her
whole heart. As Grace's letter and Miss Dale's answer
will assist us in our story, I will venture to give them
both.

** Silverbridge, December, iSO^s

" Dearest Lily, — I hardly know how to tell you what
has happened, it is so very terrible. But perhaps you
will have heard it already, as everybody is talking of it
here. It has got into the newspapers, and therefore
it cannot be kept secret. Not that I should keep any-
thing from you ; only this is so very dreadful that I
hardly know how to write it. Somebody says, — a Mr.
Soames, I believe it is, — that papa has taken some
money that does not belong to him, and he is to be
brought before the magistrates and tried. Of course
papa has done nothing wrong. I do think he would
be the last man in the world to take a penny that did

64 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

not belong to him. You know how poor he is ; what
a life he has had! But I think he would almost
sooner see mamma starving; — I am sure he would
rather be starved himself, than even borrow a shilling
which he could not pay. To suppose that he would
take money " (she had tried to write the word " steal,"
but she could not bring her pen to form the letters) " is
monstrous. But, somehow, the circumstances have
been made to look bad against him, and they say that
he must come over here to the magistrates. I often
think that of all men in the world papa is the most un-
fortimate. Everything seems to go against him, and
yet he is so good ! Poor mamma has been over here,
and she is distracted. I never saw her so wretched
before. She had been to your friend, Mr. Walker, and
came to me afterwards for a minute. Mr. Walker has
got something to do with it, though mamma says she
thinks he is quite friendly to papa. I wonder whether
you could find out, through Mr. Walker, what he thinks
about it. Of course mamma knows that papa has
done nothing wrong ; but she says that the whole thing
is most mysterious, and that she does not know how
to account for the money. Papa, you know, is not
hke other people. He forgets things ; and is always
thinking, thinking, thinking of his great misfortunes.
Poor papa! My heart bleeds so when I remember
all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking about
myself.

"When mamma left me,-r-and it was then I first
knew that papa would really have to be tried, — I went
to Miss Annabella, and told her that I would go home.
She asked me why, and I said I would not disgrace
her house by staying in it. She got up and took me

GRACE CRAWLEY. 65

in her arms, and there came a tear out of both her
dear old eyes, and she said that if anything evil came
to papa, — which she would not believe, as she knew
him to be a good man, — there should be a home in her
house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane.
Is n*t she a wonderful woman? When I think of her,
I sometimes think that she must be an angel already.
Then she became very serious, — for just before,
through her tears, she had tried to smile, — and she told
me to remember that all people could not be like her,
who had nobody to look to but herself and her sister ;
and that at present I must task myself not to think of
that which I had been thinking of before. She did
not mention anybody's name, but of course I under-
stood very well what she meant ; and I suppose she is
right. I said nothing in answer to her, for I could not
speak. She was holding my hand, and I took hers up
and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that I knew that
she was right ; but I could not have spoken about it
for all the world. It was not ten days since that she
herself, with all her prudence, told me that she thought
I ought to make up my mind what answer I would
give him. And then I did not say anything ; but of
course she knew. And after that Miss Anne spoke
quite freely about it, so that I had to beg her to be
silent even before the girls. You know how imprudent
she is. But it is all over now. Of course Miss Anna-
bella is right. He has got a great many people to
think of ; his father and mother, and his darling little
Edith, whom he brought here twice, and left her with
us once for two days, so that she got to know me quite
well ; and I took such a love for her, that I could not
bear to part with her. But I think sometimes that all

VOL. I. — 6

66 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

our family axe bom to be unfortunate, and then I tell
myself that I will never hope for anything again.

" Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing
on earth could comfort me, and yet I shall like to have
your letter. Dear, dear Lily, I am not even yet so
wretched but what I shall rejoice to be told good news
of you. If it only could be as John wishes it! And
why should it not? It seems to me that nobody has
a right or a reason to be unhappy except us. Good-
bye, dearest Lily.

" Your affectionate friend,

"Grace Crawley."

" P.S. — I think I have made up my mind that I will
go back to Hogglestock at once if the magistrates
decide against papa. I think I should be doing the
school harm if I were to stay here."

The answer to this letter did not reach Miss Crawley
till after the magistrates* meeting on Thursday, but it
will be better for our story that it should be given here
than postponed until the result of that meeting shall
have been told. Miss Dale's answer was as follows : —

'* Allington, December, 186-.

" Dear Grace, — ^Your letter has made me very un-
happy. If it can at all comfort you to know that
mamma and I sympathise with you altogether, of that
you may at any rate be sure. But in such troubles
nothing will give comfort. They must be bome till
the fire of misfortune bums itself out.

" I had heard about the affair a day or two before
I got your note. Our clergyman, Mr. Boyce, told us
of it. Of course we all know that the charge must be

GRACE CRAWLEY. 67

altogether unfounded, and mamma says that the truth
will be sure to show itself at last. But that conviction
does not cure the evil, and I can well understand that
your father should suffer grievously ; and I pity your
mpther quite as much as I do him.

" As for Major Grantly, if he be such a man as I
took him to be from the httle I saw of him, all this
would make no difference to him. I am sure that it
ought to make none. Whether it should not make a
difference in you is another question. I think it should ;
and I think your answer to him should be that you
could not even consider any such proposition while
your father was in so great trouble. I am so much
older than you, and seem to have had so much experi-
ence, that I do not scruple, as you will see, to come
down upon you with all the weight of my wisdom.

" About that other subject I had rather say nothing.
I have known your cousin all my life, almost ; and I
legard no one more kindly than I do him. When I
think of my friends, he is always one of the dearest.
But when one thinks of going beyond friendship, even
if one tries to do so, there are so many barriers!

" Your affectionate friend,

"Lily Dale.

" Mamma bids me say that she would be delighted
to have you here whenever it might suit you to come ;
and I add to this message my entreaty that you will
come at once. You say that you think you ought to
leave Miss Prettyman's for a while. I can well under-
stand your feeling; but as your sister is with your
mother, surely you had better come to us, — I mean
quite at once. I will not scniple to tell you what

68 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

mamma says, because I know your good sense. She
says that as the interest of the school may possibly be
concerned, and as you have no regular engagement,
she thinks you ought to leave Silverbridge ; but she
says that it will be better that you come to us than that
you should go home. If you went home, people might
say that you had left in some sort of disgrace. Come
to us, and when all this has been put right, then you
go back to Silverbridge ; and then, if a certain per-
son speaks again, you can make a different answer.
Mamma quite understands that you are to come ; so
you have only got to ask your own mamma, and come
at once."

Tnis letter, as the reader will understand, did not
reach Grace Crawley till after the all-important Thurs-
day ; but before that day had come round, Grace had
told Miss Prettyman, — ^had told both the Miss Pretty-
mans, — that she was resolved to leave them. She had
done this without even consulting her mother, driven
to it by various motives. She knew that her father's
conduct was being discussed by the girls in the school,
and that things were said of him which it could not
but be for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that
any one should say of a teacher in her establishment.
She felt, too, that she could not hold up her head in
Silverbridge in these days, as it would become her to
do if she retained her position. She did struggle gal-
lantly, and succeeded much more nearly than she was
herself aware. She was all but able to carry herself as
though no terrible accusation was being made against
her father. Of the struggle, however, she was not
herself the less conscious, and she told herself that on

GRACE CRAWLEY. 69

that account also she must go. And then she must
go also because of Major Grantly. Whether he was
minded to come and speak to her that one other needed
word, or whether he was not so minded, it would be
better that she should be away from Silverbndge. If
he spoke it she could only answer him by a negative ;
and if he were minded not to speak it, would it not be
better that she should leave herself the power of think-
ing that his silence had been caused by her absence,
and not by his coldness or indifference?

She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss
Prettyman, and was shown into the elder sister's room,
at eleven o'clock on the Tuesday morning. The elder
Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself till
twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with
the young ladies, — which were sometimes very awful
in their nature, — ^for the two previous hours. During
these interviews an immense amount of business was
done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said
to have been there made or marred ; as when, for in-
stance. Miss Crimpton had been advised to stay at
home with her uncle in England, instead of going out
with her sisters to India, both of which sisters were
married within three months of their landing at Bom-
bay. The way in which she gave her counsel on such
occasions was very efficacious. No one knew better
than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most effect-
ively in his own farm-yard, and therefore aU crowing
intended to be effective was done by her within the
shrine of her own peculiar room.

Well, my dear, what is it? " she said to Grace.

Sit in the arm-chair, my dear, and we can then talk
comfortably." The teachers, when they were closeted

7© THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit in the
arm-chair, whereas a small, straight-backed, uneasy
chair was kept for the use of the young ladies. And
there was, too, a stool of repentance, out against the
wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young ladies who
had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies
generally do.

Grace seated herself, and then began her speech
very quickly. " Miss Prettyman," she said, " I have
made up my mind that I will go home, if you please."

" And why should you go home, Grace? Did I not
tell you that you should have a home here? " Miss
Prettyman had weak eyes, and was very small, and
had never possessed any claim to be called good-look-
ing. And she assumed nothing of majestical awe from
any adornment or studied amplification of the outward
woman by means of impressive trappings. The pos-
sessor of an unobservant eye might have called her a
mean-looking little old woman. And certainly there
would have been nothing awful in her to any one who
came across her otherwise than as a lady having au-
thority in her own school. But within her own pre-
cincts, she did know how to surround herself with a
dignity which all felt who approached her there.
Grace Crawley, as she heard the simple question which
Miss Prettyman had asked, unconsciously acknowl-
edged the strength of the woman's manner. She
already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan
so ungracious, so unnecessary, and so imwise.

" I think I ought to be with mamma at present,"
said Grace.

" Your mother has your sister with her."

" Yes, Miss Prettyman ; Jane is there."

GRACE CRAWLEY. 7 1

If there be no other reason, I cannot think that
that can be held to be a reason now. Of course your
mother would like to have you always; unless you
should be married, — but then there are reasons why
this should not be so."

" Of course there are."

" I do not think, — that is, if I know all that there
is to be known, — I do not think, I say, that there can
be any good ground for your leaving us now, — just
now."

Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her
courage, and collecting her words ; and after that she
spoke. " It is because of papa, and because of this
charge "

" But, Grace "

" I know what you are going to say, Miss Pretty-
man ; — that is, I think I know."

" If you will hear me, you may be sure that you
know."

" But I want you to hear me for one moment first.
I beg your pardon, Miss Prettyman ; I do indeed, but
I want to say this before you go on. I must go home,
and I know I ought. We are all disgraced, and I
won't stop here to disgrace the school. I know papa
has done nothing wrong ; but nevertheless we are dis-
graced. The police are to bring him in here on Thurs-
day, and everybody in Silverbridge will know it. It
cannot be right that I should be here teaching in the
school, while it is all going on ; — and I won't. And,
Miss Prettyman, I could n't do it, — ^indeed I could n't.
I can't bring myself to think of anything I am doing.
Indeed I can't ; and then, Miss Prettjonan, there are
other reasons." By the time she had proceeded thus

72 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

far, Grace Crawley's words were nearly choked by her
tears.

And what are the other reasons, Grace? "
I don't know," said Grace, struggling to speak
through her tears.

"But I know," said Miss Prettyman. "I know
them all. I know all your reasons, and I tell you that
in my opinion you ought to remain where you are, and
not go away. The very reasons which to you are
reasons for your going, to me are reasons for your
remaining here."

" I can't remain. I am determined to go. I don't
mind you and Miss Anne, but I can't bear to have the
girls looking at me, and the servants."

Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what
words of wisdom would be most appropriate in the
present conjuncture. But words of wisdom did not
seem to come easily to her, having for the moment
been banished by tenderness of heart. " Come here,
my love," she said at last. "Come here, Grace."
Slowly Grace got up from her seat and came round,
and stood by Miss Prettyman's elbow. Miss Pretty-
man pushed her chair a little back, and pushed herself
a little forward, and stretching out one hand, placed
her arm round Grace's waist, and with the other took
hold of Grace's hand, and thus drew her down and
kissed the girl's forehead and lips. And then Grace
found herself kneeling at her friend's feet. " Grace,"
she said, " do you not know that I love you? Do you
not know that I love you dearly? " In answer to this,
Grace kissed the withered hand she held in hers, while
the warm tears trickled down upon Miss Prettyman's
knuckles. " I love you as though you were my own,"

GRACB CRAWLEY. 73

exclaimed the schoolmistress ; " and will you not trust
me, that I know what is best for you? "
I must go home," said Grace.
Of course you shall, if you think it right at last;
but let us talk of it. No one in this house, you know,
has the slightest suspicion that your father has done
anything that is in the least dishonourable."

" I know that you have not."

" No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as
though no one in that house beyond herself and her
sister had a right to have any opinion on any subject.

" I know that," said Grace.

"Well, my dear. If we think so "

" But the servants. Miss Prettyman? "

" If any servant in this house says a word to offend
you, I *ll— I 11 "

" They don't say anything. Miss Prettyman, but they
look. Indeed I 'd better go home. Indeed I had! "

" Do not you think your mother has cares enough
upon her, and burden enough, without having another
mouth to feed, and another head to shelter? You
have n't thought of that, Grace!*'

" Yes, I have."

" And as for the work, whilst you are not quite well
you shall not be troubled with teaching. I have some
old papers that want copying and settling, and you
shall sit here and do that just for an employment.
Anne knows that I *ve long wanted to have it done,
and I 'D tell her that you Ve kindly promised to do it
for me."

"No; no; no," said Grace; "I must go home."
She was still kneeling at Miss Prettyman's knee, and
still holding Miss Prettyman's hand. And then, at

74 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET,

that moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle but
yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part
of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady
who was sitting there, but which still claimed admit-
tance almost as a right. The tap was well known
by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace
immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettjonan settled
herself in her chair with a motion which almost
seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her
late position.

"I suppose I may come in?" said Miss Anne,
opening the door and inserting her head.

" Yes, you may come in, — ^if you have anjrthing to
say," said Miss Prettyman, with an air which seemed
to be intended to assert her supremacy. But, in truth,
she was simply collecting the wisdom and dignity which
had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness.

" I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said
Miss Anne.

" Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Prettyman.

"What is the matter, Grace?" said Miss Anne,
seeing the tears.

Never mind now," said Miss Prettyman.
Poor dear, I 'm siure I 'm sorry as though she were
my own sister," said Anne. " But, Annabella, I want
to speak to you especially."
To me, in private ? "
Yes, to you ; in private, if Grace won't mind."

Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going,
Miss Anne, upon whose brow a heavy burden of
thought was lying, stopped her suddenly. " Grace, my
dear," she said, " go upstairs into your room, will you ?
— ^not across the hall to the school."

It
if

GRACE CRAWLEY. 75

" And why should n't she go to the school ? " said
Miss Prettyman.

Miss Anne paused a moment, and then answered, —
unwillingly, as though driven to make a reply which
she knew to be indiscreet. " Because there is somebody
in the haU."

"Go to your room, dear," said Miss Prettyman.
And Grace went to her room, never turning an eye
down towards the hall. "Who is it?" said Miss
Prettyman.

"Major Grantly is here, asking to see you," said
Miss Anne.

CHAPTER VII.

MISS prettyman's private room.

Major Grantly, when threatened by his father
with pecuniary punishment, should he demean himself
by such a marriage as that he had proposed to himself,
had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss
Crawley on the next morning. This, however, he had
not done. He had not done it, partly because he did
not quite believe his father's threat, and partly because
he felt that that threat was almost justified, — ^for the
present moment, — ^by the circumstances in which Grace
Crawley's father had placed himself. Henry Grantly
acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morn-
ing after his dinner at the rectory, that in this matter
of his marriage he did owe much to his family. Should
he marry at all, he owed it to them to marry a lady.
And Grace Crawley, — so he told himself, — ^was a lady.
And he owed it to them to bring among them as his
wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them
by her education, manners, or even by her personal
appearance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was,
in his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to
expect her to be, and in some respects a great deal
superior to that type of womanhood with which they
had been most generally conversant. " If everybody
had her due, my sister is n't fit to hold a candle to her,"
he said to himself. It must be acknowledged, there-

MISS prettyman's private room. 77

fore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley.
And he declared to himself, over and over again, that
his family had no right to demand that he should marry
a woman with money. The archdeacon's son by no
means despised money. How could he, having come
forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory
at Plumstead Episcopi ? Before he had been brought
by his better nature and true judgment to see that
Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the two, he
had nearly submitted himself to the twenty thousand
pounds of Miss Emily Dunstable, — to that, and her
good-humour and rosy freshness combined. But he
regarded himself as the well-to-do son of a very rich
father. His only child was amply provided for ; and
he felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do
as he pleased. He felt this %vith double strength after
his father's threat.

But he had no right to make a marriage by which
his family would be disgraced. Whether he was right
or wrong in supposing that he would disgrace his fam-
ily were he to marry the daughter of a convicted thief,
it is hztrdly necessary to discuss here. He told himself
that it would be so, — ^telling himself also that, by the
stem laws of the world, the son and the daughter must
pay for the offence of the father and the mother.
Even among the poor, who would willingly marry the
child of a man who had been hanged ? But he carried
the argument beyond this, thinking much of the mat-
ter, and endeavouring to think of it not only justly,
but generously. If the accusation against Crawley
were false, — if the man were being injured by an un-
just charge,— even if he, Grantly, could make himself
think that the girPs father had not stolen the money,

78 THE LAST CHRONICLE OP BARSET.

then he would dare everything and go on. I do not
know that his argument was good, or that his mind
was logical in the matter. He ought to have felt that
his own judgment as to the man's guilt was less likely
to be correct than that of those whose duty it was and
would be to form and to express a judgment on the
matter ; and as to Grace herself, she was equally in-
nocent whether her father were guilty or not guilty.
If he were to be debarred from asking her for her hand
by his feelings for his father and mother, he should
hardly have trusted to his own skill in ascertaining the
real truth as to the alleged theft. But he was not
logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became
unjust.

He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he
presumed to be best informed on such matters, there
was a growing opinion that Mr. Crawley had stolen
the money. He was intimate with all the Walkers,
and was able to find out that Mrs. Walker knew that
her husband believed in the clergyman's guilt. He
was by no means alone in his willingness to accept Mr.
Walker's opinion as the true opinion. Silverbridge,
generally, was endeavouring to dress itself in Mr.
Walker's glass, and to believe as Mr. Walker believed.
The ladies of Silverbridge, including the Miss Pretty-
mans, were aware that Mr. Walker had been very kind
both to Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, and argued from this
that Mr. Walker must think the man to be innocent.
But Henry Grantly, who did not dare to ask a direct
question of the solicitor, went cunningly to work, and
closeted himself with Mrs. Walker, — with Mrs. Walker,
who knew well of the good fortune which was hovering
over Grace's head and was so nearly settling itself upon

MISS prettyman's private room. 79

her shoulders. She would have given a finger to be
able to whitewash Mr. Crawley in the major's estima-
tion. Nor must it be supposed that she told the major
in plain words that her husband had convinced himself
of the man's guilt. In plain words no question was
asked between them, and in plain words no opinion
was expressed. But there was the look of sorrow in
the woman's eye, there was the absence of reference to
her husband's assurance that the man was innocent,
there was the air of settled grief which told of her own
conviction; — and the major left her, convinced that
Mrs. Walker believed Mr. Crawley to be guilty.

Then he went to Jarchester; not open-mouthed
with inquiry, but rather with open ears, and it seemed
to him that all men in Barchester were of one mind.
There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this
county-club nine men out of every ten were talking
about Mr. Crawley. It was by no means necessary
ihat a man should ask questions on the subject.
Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking
was required ; and opinion in Barchester, — at any rate
in the county-club, — seemed now to be all of one mind.
There had been every disposition at first to believe
Mr. Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed to
be innocent, even after he had said wrongly that the
cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames ; but he
had since stated that he had received it from Dean
Arabih, and that statement was also shown to be false.
A man who has a cheque changed on his own behalf
is bound at least to show where he got the cheque.
Mr. Crawley had not only failed to do this, but had
given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he drove
home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed

8o ' THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

up all the evidence in his own mind, and brought in a
verdict of Guilty against the father of the girl whom he
loved.

On the following morning he walked into Silverbridge
and called at Miss Prettyman*s house. As he went
along his heart was warmer towards Grace than it had
ever been before. He had told himself that he was
now bound to abstain, for his father's sake, from doing
that which he had told his father that he would cer-
tainly do. But he knew also, that he had said that
which, though it did not bind him to Miss Crawley,
gave her a right to expect that he would so bind him-
self. And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of
what his intention had been, and could not but expect
that he should now be explicit. Had he been a wise
man altogether, he would probably have abstained from
saying anything at the present moment, — a wise man,
that is, in the ways and feelings of the world in such
matters. But, as there are men who will allow them-
selves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of
women, believing that the world will condone any
amount of fault of that nature, so are there other men,
and a class of men which on the whole is the more
numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to the
danger of censure on this head, — and to the danger of
censure not only from others, but from themselves also.
Major Grantly had done that which made him think
it imperative upon him to do something further, and
to do that something at once.

Therefore he started off on the Monday morning
after breakfast and walked to Silverbridge, and as he
walked he built various castles in the air. Why should
he not marry Grace, — ^if she would have him, — and

MISS prettyman's private room. 8 1

take her away beyond the reach of her father's calam-
ity ? Why should he not throw over his own people
altogether, money, position, society, and all, and give
himself up to love ? Were he to do so, men might say
that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was
dishonourable. His spirit was high enough to teach
him to think that such conduct on his part would have
in it something of magnificence; but, yet, such was
not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was
his intention to apologise for not doing this magnificent
thing. His mind was quite made up. Nevertheless
he built those castles in the air.

It so happened that he encountered the younger
Miss Prettyman in the hall. It would not at all have
suited him to reveal to her the purport of his visit, or
ask her either to assist his suit or to receive his apolo-
gies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a per-
sonage in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such em-
ployment. Miss Anne Prettyman was, indeed, herself
submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy
which is due to a superior being. He therefore simply
asked her whether he could be allowed to see her sister.

"Surely, Major Grantly; — that is, I think so. It
is a little early, but I think she can receive you."

" It is early, I know ; but as I want to say a word
or two on business "

" Oh, on business. I am sure she will see you on
business ; she will only be too proud. If you will be
kind enough to step in here for two minutes." Then
Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the little
parlour, .ran upstairs with her message to her sister.
" Of course it 's about Grace Crawley," she said to
herself as she went. " It can't be about anything else.

VOL. 1. — d

82 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

I wonder what it is he 's going to say. If he *s going
to pop, and the father in all this trouble, he *s the finest
fellow that ever trod." Such were her thoughts as she
tapped at the door and announced in the presence of
Grace that there was somebody in the hall.

" It 's Major Grantly," whispered Anne, as soon as
Grace had shut the door behind her.

** So I supposed by your telling her not to go into
the hall. What has he come to say ? "

"How on earth can I tell you that, AnnabeUa?
But I suppose he can have only one thing to say after
all that has come and gone. He can only have come
with one object."

" He would n*t have come to me for that. He
would have asked to see herself."

" But she never goes out now, and he can't see her."

*' Or he would have gone to them over at Hoggle-
stock," said Miss Prettyman. " But of course he must
come up now he is here. Would you mind telling
him ; — or shall I ring the bell ? "

" I '11 tell him. We need not make more fuss than
necessary, with the servants, you know. I suppose
I *d better not come back with him? "

There was a tone of supplication in the younger sis-
ter's voice as she made the last suggestion, which ought
to have melted the heart of the elder ; but it was un-
availing. "As he has asked to see me, I think you
had better not," said AnnabeUa. Miss Anne Pretty-
man bore her cross meekly, offered no argument on the
subject, and returning to the little parlour where she
had left the major, brought him upstairs and ushered
him into her sister's room without even entering it
again, herself.

MISS PR£TTYMAN'S PRIVATE ROOM. 83

Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with
Miss Anne Prettyman as a man under thirty may well
be with a lady nearer fifty than forty, who is not spe-
cially connected with him by any family tie; but of
Miss Prettyman he knew personally very much less.
Miss Prettyman, as has before been said, did not go
out, and was therefore not common to the eyes of the
Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see her friends
in her own house, and Grace Crawley's lover, as the
major had come to be called, l\ad been there on more
than one occasion ; but of real personal intimacy be-
tween them there had hitherto existed none. He
might have spoken, perhaps, a dozen words to her in
his life. He had now more than a dozen to speak to
her, but he hardly knew how to commence them.

She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken
his hand and asked him to sit down. "My sister
tells me that you want to see me," she said, in her
softest, mildest voice.

" I do. Miss Prettjonan. I want to speak to you
about a matter that troubles me very much, — ^very
much indeed."

*' Anything that I can do. Major Grantly "

*' Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good,
or I should not have ventured to come to you. In-
deed I should n't trouble you now, of course, if it was
only about myself. I know very well what a great
friend you are to Miss Crawley."

Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here."
So do I," said the major, bluntly; "I love her
dearly, too." Then he paused, as though he thought
that Miss Prettyman ought to take up the speech.
But Miss Prettyman seemed to think differently, and

84 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSd&T.

he was obliged to go on. "I don't know whether
you have ever heard about it, or noticed it, or— or —

or " He felt that he was very awkward, and he

blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat be-
fore the old woman, trying to tell his story, but not
knowing how to tell it. " The truth is. Miss Pretty-
man, I have done all but ask her to be my wife, and
now has come this terrible affair about her father."

"It is a terrible affair. Major Grantly; — ^very
terrible."

" By Jove, you may say that! "

" Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter
as you or I are."

" You think so. Miss Prettyman ? "

" Think so 1 I feel quite sure of it. What, a clergy-
man of the Church of England, a pious, hard-working
country clergyman, whom we have known among us
by his good works for years, suddenly turn thief, and
pilfer a few pounds ! It is not possible. Major Grantly.
And the father of such a daughter, too! It is not
possible. It may do for men of business to think so,
lawyers and such like, who are obliged to think in ac-
cordance with the evidence, as they call it ; but to my
mind the idea is monstrous. I don't know how he got
it, and I don't care ; but I 'm quite sure he did not
steal it. Who ever heard of anybody becoming so
base as that all at once ? "

The major was startled by her eloquence, and by
the indignant tone of voice in which it was expressed.
It seemed to tell him that she would give him no sym-
pathy in that which he had come to say to her, and
that she was prepared to upbraid him already in that
he was not prepared to do the magnificent thing of

MISS prettyman's private room. 85

which he had thought when he had been building his
castles in the air. Why should he not do the magnifi-
cent thing ? Miss Prettyman's eloquence was so strong
that it half convinced him that the Barchester Club and
Mr. Walker had come to a wrong conclusion after all.

" And how does Miss Crawley bear it ? " he asked,
desirous of postponing for a while any declaration of
his own purpose.

"She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she
thinks evil of her father."

" Of course she does not think him guilty ? "

''Nobody thinks him so in this house, Major
Grantly," said the little woman, very imperiously.
" But Grace is, naturally enough, very sad ; — ^very sad
indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her to-
day."

'' I was not thinking of it," said the major.

"Poor, dear girl! it is a great trial for her. Do you
wish me to give her any message, Major Grantly ? "

The moment had now come in which he must say
that which he had come to say. The little woman
waited for an answer, and as he was there, within her
power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he
said will not be approved by any strong-minded reader.
I fear that our lover will henceforth be considered by
such a one as being but a weak, wishy-washy man,
who had hardly any mind of his own to speak of ; —
that he was a man of no account, as the poor people
say. " Miss Prettyman, what message ought I to send
to her ? " he said.

"Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you that?
How can I put words into your mouth ? "

" It is n't the words," he said ; " but the feelings."

..>•

€(

86 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" And how can I tell the feelings of your heart ? **

" Oh, as for that, I know what my feeUngs are. I
do love her with all my heart ; — I do, indeed. A fort-
night ago I was only thinking whether she would accept
me when I asked her, — wondering whether I was too
old for her, and whether she would mind having Edith
to take care of."

She is very fond of Edith, — very fond indeed."
Is she ? " said the major, more distracted than
ever. Why should he not do the magnificent thing
after all ? " But it is a great charge for a yoimg girl
when she marries."

" It is a great charge ; — a very great charge. It is
for you to think whether you should entrust so great a
charge to one so young."

" I have no fear about that at all."

"Nor should I have any, — ^as you ask me. We
have known Grace well, thoroughly, and are quite sure
that she will do her duty in that state of life to which
it may please God to call her."

The major was aware when this was said to him that
he had not come to Miss Prettyman for a character of
the girl he loved ; and yet he was not angry at receiv-
ing it. He was neither angry, nor even indifferent.
He accepted the character almost gratefully, though
he felt that he was being led away from his purpose.
He consoled himself for this, however, by remembering
that the path by which Miss Prettyman was now lead-
ing him, led to the magnificent, and to those pleasant
castles in the air which he had been building as he
walked into Silverbridge. " I am quite sure that she
is all that you say," he repKed. " Indeed, I had made
up my mind about that long ago."

MISS prettyman's private room. 87

And what can I do for you, Major Grantly ? "
You think I ought not to see her ? "

" I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust
in her judgment that I should leave her altgether to
her own discretion."

The magnificent thing must be done, and the major
made up his mind accordingly. Something of regret
came over his spirit as he thought of a father-in-law
disgraced and degraded, and of his own father broken-
hearted. But now there was hardly an alternative left
to him. And was it not the manly thing for him to
do ? He had loved the girl before this trouble had
come upon her, and was he not bound to accept the
burden which his love had brought with it ? "I will
see her," he said, " at once, if you will let me, and ask
her to be my wife. But I must see her alone."

Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had
undoubtedly been playing her fish cautiously, or rather
her young friend's fish, — ^perhaps I may say cunningly.
She had descended to artifice on behalf of the girl
whom she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen
some way into the man's mind, and had been partly
aware of his purpose,— of his infirmity of purpose, of
his double purpose. She had perceived that a word
from her might help Grace's chance, and had led the
man on till he had committed himself, at any rate to
her. In doing this she had been actuated by friend-
ship rather than by abstract principle. But now, when
the moment had come in which she must decide upon
some action, she paused. Was it right, for the sake
of either of them, that an offer of marriage should be
made at such a moment as this? It might be very
well, in regard to some future time, that the major

88 THE I-AST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

should have so committed himself. She saw something
of the nian's spirit, and beheved that, having gone so
far, having so far told his love, he would return to his
love hereafter, let the result of the Crawley trial be
what it might. But, — ^but, this could be no proper
time for love-making. Though Grace loved the man,
as Miss Prettyman knew well, — though Grace loved
the child, having allowed herself to long to call it her
own, — though such a marriage would be the making
of Grace's fortune as those who loved her could hardly
have hoped that it should ever hav^ been made, she
would certainly refuse the man if he were to propose
to her now. She would refuse him, and then the man
would be free ; — ^free to change his mind if he thought
fit. Considering all these things, craftily in the exer-
cise of her friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy
the claims of a high morality, she resolved that the
major had better not see Miss Crawley at the present
moment. Miss Prettyman paused before she replied,
and, when she did speak, Major Grantly had risen
from his chair and was standing with his back to the
fire. " Major Grantly," she said, " you shall see her if
you please, and if she pleases ; but I doubt whether
her answer at such a moment as this would be that
which you would wish to receive."

" You think she would refuse me."

"I do not think that she would accept you now.
She would feel, — I am sure she would feel, that these
hours of her father's sorrow are not hours in which love
should be either offered or accepted. You shall, how-
ever, see her if you please."

The major allowed himself a moment for thought ;
and as he thought he sighed. Grace Crawley became

it
it
tl

MISS prettyman's private room. 89

more beautiful in his eyes than ever, was endowed by
these words from Miss Prettyman with new charms
and brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let
come what might he would ask her to be his wife
on some future day, if he did not so ask her now.
For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by
Miss Prettyman. " Then I will not see her," he said.
" I think that will be the wiser course."
"Of course you knew before this that I— loved
her? "

I thought so. Major Grantly."

And that I intended to ask her to be my wife? "

Well ; since you put the question to me so plainly,
I must confess that as Grace's friend I should not
quite have let things go on as they have gone, — though
I am not at all disposed to interfere with any girl
wh< on I believe to be pure and good as I know her to
be,-— but still I should hardly have been justified in
letting things go as they have gone, if I had not be
lievjd that such was your purpose."

" I wanted to set myself right with you. Miss
Pre rtyman."

" You are right with me — quite right ; " and she got
up and gave him her hand. " You are a fine, noble-
hearted gentleman, iind I hope that our Grace may
livv to be your happy wife, and the mother of your
dailing child, and the mother of other children. I do
not see how a woman could have a happier lot in life."

And will you give Grace my love? "

I will tell her at any rate that you have been here,
and that you have inquired after her with the great-
est kindness. She will understand what that means
without any word of love."

90 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Can I do anything for her, — or for her father ; I
mean in the way of — ^money ? I don't mind mentioning
it to yon, Miss Prettyman."

" I will tell her that you are to do it, if anything can
be done. For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery
will be cleared up at last ; and then, if you will come
here, we shall be so glad to see you ; — I shall, at least."

Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself
actually descended with him into the hall, and bade
him farewell most affectionately before her sister and
two of the maids who came out to open the door.
Miss Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great friend-
ship with which the major was dismissed, could not
contain herself, but asked most impudent questions,
in a whisper indeed, but in such a whisper that any
sharp-eared maid-servant could hear and understand
them. " Is it settled," she asked, when her sister had
ascended only the first flight of stairs; — "has he
popped ? " The look with which the elder sister pun-
ished and dismayed the younger, I would not have
borne for twenty pounds. She simply looked, and said
nothing, but passed on. When she had regained her
room she rang the bell, and desired the servant to ask
Miss Crawley to be good enough to step to her. Poor
Miss Anne retired discomfited into the solitude of one
of the lower rooms, and sat for some minutes all alone,
recovering from the shock of her sister's anger. "At
any rate he has n't popped," she said to herself, as she
made her way back to the school.

After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were
closeted together for about an hour. What passed
between them need not be repeated here word for
word ; but it may be imderstood that Miss Prettyman

MISS prettyman's private room. 91

said no more than she ought to have said, and that
Grace understood all that she ought to have under-
stood. " No man ever behaved with more consider-
ate friendship, or more like a gentleman/' said Miss
Prettyman.

" I am sure he is very good, and I am so glad he
did not ask to see me," said Grace. Then Grace went
away, and Miss Prettyman sat awhile in thought, con-
sidering what she had done, not without some stings of
conscience.

Major Grantly, as he walked home, was not alto-
gether satisfied with himself, though he gave himself
credit for some diplomacy which I do not think he
deserved. He felt that Miss Prettyman and the world
in general, should the world in general ever hear any-
thing about it, would give him credit for having be-
haved well ; and that he had obtained this credit with-
out conmiitting himself to the necessity of marrying the
daughter of a thief, should things turn out badly in
regard to the father. But, — and this but robbed him
of all the pleasure which comes from real success, —
but he had not treated Grace Crawley with the perfect
generosity which love owes, and he was in some degree
ashamed of himself. He felt, however, that he might
probably have Grace, should he choose to ask for her
when this trouble should have passed by. "And I
will," he said to himself, as he entered the gate of his
own paddock, and saw his child in her perambulator
before the nurse. "And I will ask her, sooner or later,
let things go as they may." Then he took the peram-
bulator under his own charge for half-an-hour, to the
satisfaction of the nurse, of the child, and of himself.

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE.

It had become necessary on the Monday morning
that Mrs. Crawley should obtain from her husband an
undertaking that he would present himself before the
magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. She had
been made to understand that the magistrates were
sinning against the strict rule of the law in not issuing
a warrant at once for Mr. Crawley's apprehension;
and that they were so sinning at the instance of Mr.
Walker, — at whose instance they would have commit-
ted almost any sin practicable by a board of English
magistrates, so great was their faith in him ; and she
knew that she was bound to answer her engagement.
She had also another task to perform — that, namely,
of persuading him to employ an attorney for his de-
fence ; and she was prepared with the name of an at-
torney, one Mr. Mason, also of Silverbridge, who had
been recommended to her by Mr. Walker* But when
she came to the performance of these two tasks on the
Monday morning, she found that she was unable to
accomplish either of them. Mr. Crawley first declared
that he would have nothing to do with any attorney.
As to that he seemed to have made up his mind before-
hand, and she saw at once that she had no hope of
shaking him. But when she found that he was equally
obstinate in the other matter, and that he declared that

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 93

he would not go before the magistrates unless he were
made to do so, — unless the policeman came and fetched
him, then she almost sank beneath the burden of her
troubles, and for a while was disposed to let things go
as thev would.

On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to
get through his Sunday duties, and he had succeeded.
He had succeeded so well that his wife had thought
that things might yet come right with him, that he
would remember, before it was too late, the true history
of that unhappy bit of paper, and that he was rising
above that half-madness which for months past had
afflicted him. On the Sunday evening, when he was
tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing
to him about the magistrates and the business of Thurs-
day. But on the Monday morning she commenced
her task, feeling that she owed it to Mr. Walker to lose
no more time. He was very decided in his manners,
and made her understand that he would employ no
lawyer on his own behalf. "Why should I want a
lawyer? I have done nothing wrong," he said. Then
she tried to make him understand that many who may
have done nothing wrong require a lawyer's aid. "And
who is to pay him? " he asked. To this she replied,
unfortunately, that there would be no need of thinking
of that at once. "And I am to get further into debt! "
he said. " I am to put myself right before the world
by incurring debts which I know I can never pay?
When it has been a question of food for the children I
have been weak, but I will not be weak in such a mat-
ter as this. I will have no lawyer." She did not re-
gard this denial on his part as very material, though
she would fain have followed Mr. Walker's advice had

94 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

she been able ; but when, later in the day, he declared
that the police should fetch him, then her spirit gave
way. Early in the morning he seemed to assent to the
expediency of going into Silverbridge on the Thursday,
and it was not till after he had worked himself into a
rage about the proposed attorney that he utterly re-
fused to make the journey. During the whole day,
however, his state was such as almost to break his
wife's heart. He would do nothing. He would not
go to the school, nor even stir beyond the house-door.
He would not open a book. He would not eat, nor
would he even sit at table or say the accustomed grace
when the scanty midday meal was placed upon the
table. " Nothing is blessed to me," he said, when his
wife pressed him to say the words for their child's sake.
"Shall I say that I thank God when my heart is
thankless? Shall I serve my child by a lie? " Then
for hours he sat in the same position, in the old arm-
chair, hanging over the fire speechless, sleepless, think-
ing ever, as she well knew, of the injustice of the world.
She hardly dared to speak to him, so great was the
bitterness of his words when he was goaded to reply.
At last, late in the evening, feeling that it would be her
duty to send in to Mr. Walker early on the following
morning, she laid her hand gently on his shoulder and
asked him for his promise. " I may tell Mr. Walker
that you will be there on Thursday? "

" No," tie said, shouting at her. " No. I will have
no such message sent." She started back, trembling.
Not that she was accustomed to tremble at his ways,
or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms, but
that his voice had been louder than she had before
known it. "I will hold no intercourse with them

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 95

at Silverbridge in this matter. Do you hear me,
Mary?"

" I hear you, Josiah ; but I must keep my word to
Mr. Walker. I promised that I would send to him."

" Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of
this house on Thursday of my own accord. On
Thursday I shall be here ; and here I will remain all
day, — ^unless they take me hence by force."

" But, Josiah "

" Will you obey me, or shall I walk into Silverbridge
myself and tell the man that I will not come to him? "
Then he arose from his chair and stretched forth his
hand to his hat as though he was going forth immedi-
ately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now
pitch dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he
would encounter all the severity of the pitiless winter.
Still it might have been better that he should have
gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the wet
and the mud, would have served to bring back his
mind to reason. But his wife thought of the misery
of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of his worn
boots, of the need there was to preserve the raiment
which he wore ; and she remembered that he was fast-
ing, — ^that he had eaten nothing since the morning, and
that he was not fit to be alone. She stopped him,
therefore, before he could reach the door.

"Your bidding shall be done," she said, — "of
course." ^

" Tell them, then, that they must seek me here if
they want me."

"But, Josiah, think of the parish,— of the people
who respect you. For their sakes let it not be said
that you were taken away by policemen."

96 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

"Was St. Paul not bound in prison? Did he think
of what the people might see? "

"If it were necessary, I would encourage you to
bear it without a murmur."

" It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not
murmur. Murmur, indeed! Why does not your
voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail against the
cruelty of man? " Then he went forth from the room
into an empty chamber on the other side of the pas-
sage ; and his wife, when she followed him there after
a few minutes, found him on his knees, with his fore-
head against the floor, and with his hands clutching at
the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she
seen him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half
prostrate in prayer, reviling in his agony all things
around him, — ^nay, nearly all things above him, — ^and
yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the
humiliation of confession.

It might be better with him now if only he could
bring himself to some softness of heart. Softly she
closed the door, and placing the candle on the mantel-
shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly touched
his hands with hers. He did not stir nor utter a word,
but seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently
than before. Then she kneeling there,, aloud, but with
low voice, with her thin hands clasped, uttered a prayer
in which she asked her God to remove from her hus-
band the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she
had finished, and then he rose slowly to his feet. " It
is in vain," said he. " It is all in vain. It is all in
vain." Then he returned back to the parlour, and
seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained there
without speaking till past midnight. At last, when

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. gf

she told him that she herself was very cold, and re-
minded him that for the last hour there had been no
fire, still speechless, he went up with her to their bed.

Early on the following morning she contrived to let
him know that she was about to send a neighbour's
son over with a note to Mr. Walker, fearing to lu-ge
him further to change his mind ; but hoping that he
might express his purpose of doing so when he heard
that the letter was to be sent ; but he took no notice
whatever of her words. At this moment he was. read-
ing Greek with his daughter, or rather rebuking her
because she could not be induced to read Greek.

"Oh, papa," the poor girl said, "don*t scold me
now. I am so unhappy because of all this."

" And am not I unhappy? " he said, as he closed the
book. " My God, what have I done against thee, that
my Hnes should be cast in such terrible places? "

The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. "He knows
himself to be innocent," said the poor wife, writing
what best excuse she knew how to make, " and thinks
that he should take no step himself in such a matter.
He will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he
should prefer that he should be sent for, if the law re-
quires his presence at Silverbridge on Thursday." All
this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought to
employ a high tone in defending her husband's pur-
pose ; but she broke down altogether in the few words
of the postscript : " Indeed, indeed I have done what
I could!" Mr. Walker understood it all, both the
high tone and the subsequent fall.

On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a
fly stopped at the gate of the Flogglestock Parsonage,
and out of it there came two men. One was dressed

VOL. I. — T

gS THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his bearing
to be a respectable man of the middle class of life.
He was, however, the superintendent of police for the
Silverbridge district. The other man was a policeman,
pure and simple, with the helmet-looking hat and all
the ordinary half-military and wholly disagreeable out-
ward adjimcts of the profession. " Wilkins," said the
superintendent, "hkely enough I shall. want you, for
they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if I
don't call you when I come out, just open the door like
a servant, and mount up on the box when we 're in.
And don't speak nor say nothing." Then the senior
policeman entered the house.

He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with
her bonnet and shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm-
chair, leaning over the fire. " I suppose we had better
go with you," said Mrs. Crawley directly the door was
opened ; for of course she had seen the arrival of the
fly from the window.

" The gentleman had better come with us, if he '11
be so kind," said Thompson. " I 've brought a close
carriage for him."

" But I may go with him ? " said the wife, with
frightened voice. "I may accompany my husband.
He is not well, sir, and wants assistance."

Thompson thought about it for a moment before he
spoke. There was room in the fly for only two, or if
for three, still he knew his place better than to thrust
himself inside together with his prisoner and his pris-
oner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr.
Walker to be very civil. Only one could sit on the
box with the driver, and if the request was conceded
the poor policeman must walk back. The walk, how-

n
it

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 99

ever, would not kill the policeman. "All right,
ma*am," said Thompson ; — " that is, if the gentleman
will just pass his word not to get out till I ask him."
He. will not! He will not!" said Mrs. Crawley.
I will pass my word for nothing," said Mr.
Crawley.

Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long
face, and shook his head as he turned his eyes first
towards the husband and then towards the wife, and
shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, blew
out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off
some of the mingled sorrow and indignation with which
the gentleman's words afflicted him.

Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. " You
may take my word for it, he will not stir. You may
indeed. He thinks it incumbent on him not to give
any undertaking himself, because he feels himself to
be so harshly used."

" I don't know about harshness," said Thompson,
brindling up. "A close carriage brought and "

" I will walk. If I am made to go, I will walk,"
shouted Mr. Crawley.

" I did not allude to you,— or to Mr. Walker," said
the poor wife. " I know you have been most kind. I
meant the harshness of the circumstances. Of course
he is innocent, and you must feel for him."

" Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma'am."

"That is all I meant. He knows his own inno-
cence, and therefore he is imwilling to give way in
anything."

" Of course he knows hisself, that 's certain. But
he 'd better come in the carriage if only because of the
dirt and slush."

lOO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" He will go in the carriage ; and I will go with him.
There will be room there for you, sir."

Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself
that it was very cold. Then he remembered Mr.
Walker's injunction, and bethought himself that Mrs.
Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He
conceived even unconsciously the idea that something
was due to her because of her poverty. " I '11 go with
the driver," said he, " but he '11 only give hisself a deal
of trouble if he attempts to get out."

"He won't; he won't," said Mrs. Crawley. "And
I thank you with all my heart."

" Come along, then," said Thompson.

She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and, look-
ing round to see that she was not watched, put the
hat on his head, and then lifted him as it were from
his chair. He did not refuse to be led, and allowing
her to throw round his shoulders the old cloak which
was hanging in the passage, he passed out, and was
the first to seat himself in the Silverbridge fly. His
wife followed him, and did not hear the blandishments
with which Thompson instructed his myrmidon to fol-
low through the mud on foot. Slowly they made their
way through the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when
the fly was driven into the yard of the George and
Vulture at Silverbridge.

Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and
corporation, and was blessed also with a Member of
Parliament all to itself, was not blessed with any court-
house. The magistrates were therefore compelled to
sit in the big room at the George and Vulture, in which
the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of
the West Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part

€1

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. lOI

of the country was, no doubt, very much ashamed of
its backwardness in this respect, but as yet nothing had
been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his fly
were therefore driven into the yard of the Inn, and
Mr. and Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into
a litde bed-chamber close adjoining to the big room
in which the magistrates were already assembled.
" There 's a bit of fire here," said Thompson, " and
you can make yourselves a little warm." He himself
was shivering with the cold. "When the gents is
ready in there, I *11 just come and fetch you."

I may go in with him? " said Mrs. Crawley.

I '11 have a chair for you at the end of the table,
just nigh to him," said Thompson. "You can slip
into it and say nothing to nobody." Then he left
them and went away to the magistrates.

Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had
entered the vehicle. Nor had she said much to him,
but had sat with him holding his hand in hers. Now
he spoke to her, — "Where is it that we are?" he
asked.

At Silverbridge, dearest."

But what is this chamber? And why are we here ? "

We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready.
They are in the next room."
"But this is the Inn?"

Yes, dear, it is the Inn."

And I see crowds of people about." There were
orowds of people about. There had been men in the
yard, and others standing about on the stairs, and the
public room was full of men who were ciuious to see
the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to
hear what would be the result of the case before the

n
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1 02 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

magistrates. He must be committed; so, at least,
said everybody ; but then there would be the question
of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail,
and who would be the bailmen? " Why are the peo-
ple here? " said Mr. Crawley.

" I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates
are sitting," said his wife.

"They have come to see the degradation of a
clergyman," said he ; — " and they will not be disap-
pointed."

Nothing can degrade but guilt," said his wife.
Yes, — ^misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A
man is degraded when the cares of the world press so
heavily upon him that he cannot rouse himself. They
have come to look at me as though I were a hunted
beast."

" It is but their custom always on such days."

" They have not always a clergyman before them as
a criminal." Then he was silent for a while, while she
was chafing his cold hands. "Would that I were
dead, before they had brought me to this! Would
that I were dead!"

"Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what
He sends us? "

"Would that I were dead!" he repeated. "The
load is too heavy for me to bear, and I would that I
were dead!"

The time seemed to be very long before Thompson
returned and asked them to accompany him into the
big room. When he did so, Mr. Crawley grasped hold
of his chair as though he had resolved that he would
not go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and
he obeyed her. " He will follow me," she said to the

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. IO3

policeman. And in that way they went from the small
room into the large one. Thompson went first ; Mrs.
Crawley with her veil down came next; and the
wretched man followed his wife, with his eyes fixed
upon the ground and his hands clasped together upon
his breast. He could at first have seen nothing, and
could hardly have known where he was when they
placed him in a chair. She, with a better courage,
contrived to look round through her veil, and saw that
there was a long board or table covered with green
cloth, and that six or seven gentlemen were sitting at
one end of it, while there seemed to be a crowd stand-
ing along the sides and about the room. Her husband
was seated at the other end of the table, near the cor-
ner, and round the comer, — so that she might be close
to him, — ^her chair had been placed. On the other
side of him there was another chair, now empty, in-
tended for any professional gentleman whom he might
choose to employ.

There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord
Lufton, from Framley, was in the chair ; — a handsome
man, still young, who was very popular in the county.
The cheque which had been cashed had borne his sig-
nature, and he'had consequently expressed his intention
of not sitting at the board ; but Mr. Walker, desirous
of having him there, had overruled him, showing him
that the loss was not his loss. The cheque, if stolen,
had not been stolen from him. He was not the prose-
cutor. " No, by Jove," said Lord Lufton ; " if I could
quash the whole thing, I 'd do it at once ! "

" You can't do that, my lord, but you may help us
at the board," said Mr. Walker.

Then there was the Hon, George De Courcy, Lord

104 '^^^ ^^^'^ CHRONICLE OP BAFSET.

De CouTcy's brother, from Castle Courcy. Lord De
Courcy did not live in the county, but his brother did
so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory of the fam-
ily by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, per-
haps, among the wisest of men, but he did very well
as a country magistrate, holding his tongue, keeping
his eyes open, and, on such occasions as this, obeying
Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there,
the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and
clergyman. There were many in Silverbridge who
declared that Dr. Tempest would have done far better
to stay away when a brother clergyman was thus to be
brought before the bench ; but it had been long since
Dr. Tempest .had cared what was said about him in
Silverbridge. He had become so accustomed to the
life he led as to like to be disliked, and to be en-
amoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. Walker had
ventured to suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not
choose to be there, he had laughed Mr. Walker to
scorn. " Of course I shall be there," he said. " I am
interested in the case, — ^very much interested. Of
course I shall be there." And had not Lord Lufton
been present he would have made himself more con-
spicuous by taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill was the
fourth. Mr. Fothergill was m&n of business to the
Duke of Omnium, who was the great owner of property
in and about Silverbridge, and he was the most active
magistrate in that part of the county. He was a sharp
man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition
in favour of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thome,
of Chaldicotes, a gentleman whose name has been
already mentioned in these pages. He had been for
many years a medical man practising in a little village

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. 10$

in the further end of the county ; but it had come to
be his fate, late in life, to marry a great heiress, with
whose money the ancient house and domain of Chaldi-
cotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since
then Dr. Thome had done his duty well as a country
gentleman, — not, however, without some litde want of
smoothness between him and the duke's people.

Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the
duke had wished to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldi-
cotes slipped through the duke's fingers and went into
the hands of Dr. Thome,— or of Dr. Thome's wife, —
the duke had been very angry with Mr. Fothergill.
Hence it had come to pass that there had not always
been smoothness between the duke's people and the
Chaldicotes people. It was now rumoured that Dr.
Thome intended to stand for the county on the next
vacancy, and that did not tend to make things
smoother. On the right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord
George and Mr. Fothergill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill
sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker sat Mr.
Walker's clerk. On the left hand of the chairman
were Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thome, and a little lower
down was Mr. Zachary Winthrop, who held the situa-
tion of clerk to the magistrates. Many people in Sil-
verbridge said that this was all wrong, as Mr. Winthrop
was partner with Mr. Walker, who was always em-
ployed before the magistrates if there was any employ-
ment going for an attorney. For this, however, Mr.
Walker cared very little. He had so much of his own
way in Silverbridge, that he was supposed to care
nothing for anybody.

There were many other gentlemen in the room, and
some who knew Mr. Crawley with more or less inti'

I06 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

macy. He, however, took notice of no one, and when
one friend, who had really known him well, came up
behind and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair,
the poor man hardly recognised his friend.

" I 'm sure your husband won't forget me," said Mr,
Robarts, the clergyman of Framley, as he gave his
hand to that lady across the back of Mr. Crawley's
chair.

"No, Mr. Robarts, he does not forget you. But
you must excuse him if at this moment he is not quite
himself. It is a trying situation for a clergyman."

" I can understand all that ; but I '11 tell you why
I have come. I suppose this inquiry will finish the
whole affair and clear up whatever may be the diffi-
culty. But should it not do so, it may be just possible,
Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail.
I don't understand much about it, and I dare say you
do not either ; but if there should be anything of that
sort, let Mr. Crawley name me. A brother clergyman
will be best, and I '11 have some other gentleman with
me." Then he left her, not waiting for any answer.

At the same time there was a conversation going on
between Mr. Walker and another attorney standing
behind him, Mr. Mason. " I '11 go to him," said
Walker, "and try to arrange it." So Mr. Walker
seated himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley,
and endeavoured to explain to the wretched man, that
he would do well to allow Mr. Mason to assist him.
Mr. Crawley seemed to listen to all that was said, and
then turned upon the speaker sharply : " I will have no
one to assist me," he said, so loudly that every one in
the room heard the words. " I am innocent. Why
should I want assistance? Nor have I money to pay

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. I07

for it." Mr. Mason made a quick movement forward,
intending to explain that that consideration need offer
no impediment, but was stopped by further speech
from Mr. Crawley. " I will have no one to help me,"
said he, standing upright, and for the first time remov-
ing his hat from his head. " Go on, and do what it is
you have to do." After that he did not sit down till
the proceedings were nearly over, though he was in-
vited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so.

We need not go through all the evidence that was
brought to bear upon the question. It was proved
that money for the cheque was paid to Mr. Crawley's
messenger, and that this money was given to Mr.
Crawley. When there occurred some little delay in
the chain of evidence necessary to show that Mr.
Crawley had signed and sent the cheque and got the
money, he became impatient. " Why do you trouble
the man? " he said. " I had the cheque, and I sent
him. I got the money. Has any one denied it, that
you should strive to drive a poor man like that beyond
his wits? " Then Mr. Soames and the manager of the
bank showed what inquiry had been made as soon as
the cheque came back from the London bank ; how
at first they had both thought that Mr. Crawley could
of course explain the matter, and how he had explained
it by a statement which was manifestly untrue. Then
there was evidence to prove that the cheque could not
have been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and as this was
given, Mr. Crawley shook his head and again became
impatient. "I erred in that," he exclaimed. "Of
course I erred. In my haste I thought it was so, and
in my haste I said so. I am not good at reckoning
money and remembering siuns. But I saw that I had

Io8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

been wrong when my error was shown to me, and I
acknowledged at once that I had been wrong."

Up to this point he had behaved not only with so
much spirit, but with so much reason, that his wife
began to hope that the importance of the occasion had
brought back the clearness of his mind, and that he
would, even now, be able to place himself right as the
inquiry went on. Then it was explained that Mr.
Crawley had stated that the cheque had been given to
him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown that it
could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In
reference to this, Mr. Walker was obliged to explain
that application had been made to the dean, who was
abroad, and that the dean had stated that he had given
fifty pomids to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also
that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had con*
sisted had been traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that
they had had no connection with the cheque or with
the money which had been given for the cheque at the
bank.

Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with
a pocket-book ; that he had certainly lost it on the day
on which he had called on Mr. Crawley at Hoggle-
stock; and that he missed his pocket-book on his
journey back from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the
moment of missing it he remembered that he had taken
the book out from his pocket in Mr. Crawley's room,
and at that moment he had not doubted but that he
had left it in Mr. Crawley's house. He had written
and sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been as-
sured that nothing had been fond. There had been
no other property of value in the pocket-book, — noth-
ing but a few visiting-cards and a memorandum, and

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. IO9

he had therefore stopped the cheque at the London
bank, and thought no more about it.

Mr. Crawley was then asked to explain in what way
he came possessed of the cheque. The question was
first put by Lord Lufton; but it soon fell into Mr.
Walker's hands, who certainly asked it with all the
kindness with which such an inquiry could be made.
Could Mr. Crawley at all remember by what means
that bit of paper had come into his possession, or how
long he had had it? He answered the last question
first. " It had been with him for months." And why
had he kept it? He looked round the room sternly,
almost savagely, before he answered, fixing his eyes
for a moment upon almost every face around him as
he did so. Then he spoke. " I was driven by shame
to keep it ; — and then by shame to use it." That this
statement was true, no one in the room doubted.

And then the other question was pressed upon him ;
and he lifted up his hands, and raised his voice, and
swore by the Saviour in whom he trusted, that he knew
not from whence the money had come to him. Why,
then, had he said that it had come from the dean?
He had thought so. The dean had given him money,
covered up, in an enclosure, " so that the touch of the
coin might not add to my disgrace in taking his alms,"
said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and freely
in his agony of the shame which he had striven so per-
sistently to hide. He had not seen the dean's moneys
as they had been given, and he had thought that the
cheque had been with them. Beyond that he could
tell them nothing.

Then there was a conference between the magistrates
and Mr. Walker, in which Mr. Walker submitted that

no THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

the magistrates had no alternative but to commit the
gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and with
him Dr. Thome.

" I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton,
" that he has told the truth, and that he does not know
any more than I do from whence the cheque came."

" I am quite sure he does not," said Dr. Thome.

Lord George remarked that it was the " queerest go
he had ever come across." Dr. Tempest merely shook
his head. Mr. Fothergill pointed out that even sup-
posing the gentleman's statement to be true, it by no
means went towards establishing the gentleman's inno-
cence. The cheque had been traced to the gentle-
man's hands, and the gentleman was bound to show
how it had come into his possession. Even supposing
that the gentleman had found the cheque in his house,
which was likely enough, he was not thereby justified in
changing it, and applpng the proceeds to his own pur-
poses. Mr. Walker told them that Mr. Fothergill was
right, and that the only excuse to be made for Mr.
Crawley was that he was out of his senses.

" I don't see it," said Lord Lufton. " I might have
a lot of paper money by me, and not know from Adam
where I got it."

" But you would have to show where you got it,
my lord, when inquiry was made," said Mr. Fothergill.

Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr.
Fothergill, and was very unwilling to be instructed by
him in any of the duties of a magistrate, turned his
back at once upon the duke's agent ; but within three
minutes afterwards he had submitted to the same
instmctions from Mr. Walker.

Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, and during

MR. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE. Ill

this period of the affair was leaning over the table with
his face buried on his arms. Mrs. Crawley sat by his
side, utteriy impotent as to any assistance, just touch-
ing him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till
she should be made to understand what was the de-
cision of the magistrates. This was at last commimi-
cated to her, — and to him, — in a whisper by Mr.
Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he was
committed to take his trial at Barchester, at the next
assizes, which would be held in April, but that bail
would be taken ; — his own bail in five hundred pounds,
and that of two others in two hundred and fifty pounds
each. And Mr. Walker explained" further that he and
the bailmen were ready, and that the bail-bond was
prepared. The bailmen were to be the Rev. Mr.
Robarts and Major Grantly. In five minutes the bond
was signed and Mr. Crawley was at liberty to go away,
a free man, — till the Barchester Assizes should come
roimd in April.

Of all that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley
knew little or nothing, and Mrs. Crawley did not know
much. She did say a word of thanks to Mr. Robarts,
and begged that the same might be said to — the other
gentleman. If she had heard the major's name she
did not remember it. Then they were led out back
into the bedroom, where Mrs. Walker was found,
anxious to do something, if she only knew what, to
comfort the wretched husband and the wretched wife.
But what comfort or consolation could there be within
their reach? There was tea made ready for them, and
sandwiches cut from the Inn larder. And there was
sherry in the Iim decanter. But no such comfort as
that was possible for either of them.

113 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

They were taken home again in the fly, returning
without the escort of Mr. Thompson, and as they
went some few words were spoken by Mrs. Crawley.
" Josiah," she said, *' there will be a way out of this,
even yet, if you will only hold up your head and trust."

" There is a way out of it," he said. " There is a
way. There is but one way." When he had so
spoken she said no more, but resolved that her eye
should never be off him, no, — ^not for a moment.
Then, when she had gotten him once more into that
front parlour, she threw her arms round him and kissed
him.

CHAPTER IX.

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON.

The tidings of what had been done by the magis-
trates at their pejfety sessions was communicated the
same night to Grace Crawley by Miss Prettyman.
Miss Anne Prettyman had heard the news within five
minutes of the execution of the bail-bond, and had
rushed to her sister with information as to the event.
"They have found him guilty; they have, indeed.
They have convicted him, — or whatever it is, because
he could n*t say where he got it." " You do not mean
that they have sent him to prison? " " No ; — not to
prison ; not as yet, that is. I don't understand it alto-
gether ; but he 's to be tried at the assizes. In the
mean time he 's to be out on bail. Major Grantly is
to be the bail, — ^he and Mr. Robarts. That, I think,
was very nice of him." It was undoubtedly the fact
that Miss Anne Prettyman had received an accession
of pleasurable emotion when she learned that Mr.
Crawley had not been sent away scathless, but had
been condemned, as it were, to a public trial at the
assizes. And yet she would have done anything in her
power to save Grace Crawley, or even to save her
father. And it must be explained that Miss Anne
Prettyman was supposed to be specially efficient in
teaching Roman history to her pupils, although she

YOL.I. — 8 113

il4 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

was so manifestly ignorant of the course of law in the
country in which she lived. *' Committed him," said
Miss Prettyman, correcting her sister with scorn.
" They have not convicted him. Had they convicted
him, there could be no question of bail." " I don't
know how all that is, Annabella, but at any rate Major
Grantly is to be the bailman, and there is to be another
trial at Barchester." " There cannot be more than one
trial in a criminal case," said Miss Prettyman, " unless
the jury should disagree, or something of that kind.
I suppose he has been committed, and that the trial
will take place at the assizes." " Exactly ; — that 's just
it." Had Lord Lufton appeared as praetor, and had
Thompson walked before him as lictor, carrying the
fasces. Miss Anne would have known more about it.

The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the even-
ing. Mrs. Crawley, when the inquiry was over before
the magistrates, would fain have had herself driven to
the Miss Prettymans* school that she might see her
daughter ; but she felt that to be iinpossible while her
husband was in her charge. The father would of
course have gone to his child, had the visit been sug-
gested to him ; but that would have caused another
terrible scene ; and the mother, considering it all in her
mind, thought it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman
did her best to make poor Grace think that the affair
had gone so far favourably, — did her best, that is, With-
out saying anything which her conscience told her to
be false. " It is to be settied at the assizes in April,**
she said.

" And in the mean time what will become of papa? '*

"Your papa will be at home, just as usual. He

must have some one to advise him. I dare say it

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. X15

would have been all over now if he would have
employed an attorney."

'' But it seems so hard that an attorney should be
wanted."

My dear Grace, things in this world are hard."
But they were always harder for papa and mamma
than for anybody else." In answer to this, Miss
Prettyman made some remarks intended to be wise and
kind at the saune time. Grace, whose eyes were laden
with tears, made no immediate reply to this, but re-
verted to h^ former statement, that she must go home.
*' I cannot remain. Miss Prettyman ; I am so unhappy."

" Will you be more happy at home? "

" I can bear it better there."

The poor girl soon learned from the intended con-
solations of those around her, from the ill-considered
kindnesses of the pupils, and from words which fell
from the servants, that her father had in fact been
judged to be guilty as far as judgment had as yet gone.
" They do say, miss, it *s only because he had n't a
lawyer," said the housekeeper. And if men so kind as
Lord Lufton and Mr. Walker had made him out to
be guilty, what could be expected from a stem judge
down from London, who would know nothing about
h^ poor father and his peculiarities, and from twelve
jurymen who would be shopkeepers out of Barchester?
It would kill her father, and then it would kill her
mother; and after that it would kill her also. And
there was no money in the house at home. She knew
it well. She had been paid three pounds a month for
her services at the school, and the money for the last
two months had been sent to her mother. Yet, badly
as she wanted anything that she might be able to earn*

Il6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAR9KT.

she knew that she could not go on teaching. It had
come to be acknowledged by both the Miss Pretty-
mans that any teaching on her part for the present was
impossible. She would go home and perish with the
rest of them. There was no room left for hope to her,
or to any of her family. They had accused her father
of being a common thief, — her father whom she knew
to be so nobly honest, her father whom she believed
to be among the most devoted of God's servants!
He was accused of a paltry theft, and the magistrates
and lawyers and policemen among them had decided
that the accusation was true! How could she look
the girls in the face after that, or attempt to hold her
own among the teachers!

On the next morning there came the letter frona
Miss Lily Dale, and with that in her hand she again
went to Miss Prettyman. She must go home, she said.
She must at any rate see her mother. Could Miss
Prettyman be kind enough to send her home? "I
have n't sixpence to pay for anything," she said, burst-
ing out into tears ; "and I have n't a right to ask for it"
Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made in
her eagerness to cover this latter misfortune were de-
cidedly false. There was so much money owing to
Grace, she said; money for this, money for that,
money for anything or nothing! Ten poimds would
hardly clear the account. " Nobody owes me any-
thing ; but if you *11 lend me five shiUings! " said Grace
in her agony. Miss Prettyman, as she made her way
through this difficulty, thought of Major Grantly and
his love. It would have been of no use, she knew.
Had she brought them together on that Monday,
Grace would have said nothing to him. Indeed, such

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 117

a meeting at such a time would have been improper.
But, regarding Major Grantly, as she did, in the light
of a millionaire, — for the wealth of the archdeacon
was notorious, — ^she could not but think it a pity that
poor Grace should be begging for five shillings. " You
need not at any rate trouble yourself about money,
Grace," said Miss Prettyman. " What is a pound or
two more or less between you and me? It is almost
unkind of you to think about it. Is that letter in your
hand anything for me to see, my dear? " Then Grace
explained that she did not wish to show Miss Dale's
letter, but that Miss Dale had asked her to go to
Allington. "And you will go," said Miss Prettyman.
" It will be the best thing for you, and the best thing
for your mother."

It was at last decided that Grace should go to her
friend at Allington, and to Allington she went. She
returned home for a day or two, and was persuaded
by her mother to accept the invitation that had been
given her. At Hogglestock, while she was there, new
troubles came up, of which something shall shortly be
told ; but they were troubles in which Grace could give
no assistance to her mother, and which, indeed, though
they were in truth troubles, as will be seen, were so far
beneficent that they stirred her father up to a certain
action which was in itself salutary. " I think it will be
better that you should be away, dearest," said the
mother, who now, for the first time, heard plainly all
that poor Grace had to tell about Major Grantly ; —
Grace having, heretofore, barely spoken, in most am-
biguous words, of Major Grantly as a gentleman whom
she had met at Framley and whom she had described
as being " very nice."

Il8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

In old days, long ago, Lucy Robarts, the present
Lady Lufton, sister of the Reverend Mark Robarts the
parson of Framley, had sojourned for a while under
Mr. Crawley's roof at Hogglestock. Peculiar circum-
stanceSy which need not, perhaps, be told here, had
given occasion for this visit. She had then resolved,
— for her future destiny had been known to her before
she left Mrs. Crawley's house, — that she would in
coming days do much to befriend the family of her
friend ; but the doing of much had been very difficult.
And the doing of anything had come to be very diffi-
cult through a certain indiscretion on Lord Lufton's
part. Lord Lufton had offered assistance, pecuniary
assistance, to Mr. Crawley, which Mr. Crawley had re-
jected with outspoken anger. What was Lord Lufton
to him that his lordship should dare to come to him
with his paltry money in his hand? But after a while.
Lady Lufton, exercising some cunning in the operations
of her friendship, had persuaded her sister-in-law at the
Framley parsonage to have Grace Crawley over there
as a visitor, — ^and there she had been during the sum-
mer holidays previous to the commencement of our
story. And there, at Framley, she had become ac-
quainted with Major Grantly, who was staying with
Lord Lufton at Framley Court. She had then said
something to her mother about Major Grantly, some-
thing ambiguous, something about his being "very
nice," and the mother had thought how great was the
pity that her daughter, who was " nice " too in her esti-
mation, should have so few of those adjuncts to assist
her which come from full pockets. She had thought
no more about it then ; but now she felt herself con-
strained to think more. "I don't quite understand

ft
it

€i
it

tt
it

tt
tt

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. II9

why he should have come to Miss Prettyman on Mon-
day," said Grace, '^ because he hardly knows her at
aU.'"

I suppose it was on business,'' said Mrs. Crawley.

No, mamma, it was not on business."

How can you tell, dear? **

Because Miss Prettyman said it was, — ^it was — to
ask after me. Oh, mamma, I must tell you. I know
be did like me."

Did he ever say so to you, dearest? "

Yes, mamma."
" And what did you tell him? "

I told him nothing, mamma."

And did he ask to see you on Monday? "

No, mamma; I don't think he did. I think he
understood it all too well, for I could not have spoken
to him then."

Mrs. Crawley pursued the cross-examination no
fiuther, but made up her mind that it would be better
that her girl should be away from her wretched home
during this period of her Ufe. If it were written in the
book of fate that one of her children should be ex-
empted from the series of misfortunes which seemed
to fall, one after another, almost as a matter of course,
upon her husband, upon her, and upon her family ; —
if so great good fortune were in store for her Grace as
such a marriage as this which seemed to be so nearly
offered to her, it might probably be well that Grace
should be as little at home as possible. Mrs. Crawley
had heard nothing but good of Major Grantly ; but
she knew that the Grantlys were proud rich people, —
who lived with their heads high up in the county, —
and it coiild hardly be that a son of the archdeacon

I20 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

would like to take his bride direct from Hogglestock
Parsonage.

It was settled that Grace should go to Allington as
soon as a letter could be received from Miss Dale in
return to Grace's note, and on the third morning after
her arrival at home she started. None but they who
have themselves been poor gentry, — gentry so poor as
not to know how to raise a shilling, — can understand
the peculiar bitterness of the trials which such poverty
produces. The poverty of the normal poor does not
approach it ; or, rather, the pangs arising from such
poverty are altogether of a different sort. To be hungry
and have no food, to be cold and have no fuel, to be
threatened with distraint for one's few chairs and
tables, and with the loss of the roof over one's head, —
all these miseries, which, if they do not positively reach,
are so frequently near to reaching the normal poor,
are, no doubt, the severest of the trials to which hu-
manity is subjected. They threaten life,— or, if not
life, then liberty, — ^reducing the abject one to a choice
between captivity and starvation. By hook or crook,
the poor gentleman or poor lady, — let the one or the
other be ever so poor, — does not often come to the
last extremity of the workhouse. There are such cases,
but they are exceptional. Mrs. Crawley, through all
her sufferings, had never yet found her cupboard to
be absolutely bare, or the bread-pan to be actually
empty. But there are pangs to which, at the time,
starvation itself would seem to be preferable. The
angry eyes of unpaid tradesmen, savage with an anger
which one knows to be justifiable ; the taunt of the
poor servant who wants her wages ; the gradual relin-
quishment of habits which the soft nurture of earlier,

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 121

kinder years had made second nature ; the wan cheeks
of the wife whose malady demands wine ; the rags of
the husband whose outward occupations demand de-
cency ; the neglected children, who are learning not
to be the children of gentlefolk ; and, worse than all,
the alms and doles of half -generous friends, the waning
pride, the pride that will not wane, the growing doubt
whether it be not better to bow the head, and acknowl-
edge to all the world that nothing of the pride of station
is left, — that the hand is open to receive and ready to
touch the cap, that the fall from the upper to the lower
level has been accomphshed, — these are the pangs of
poverty which drive the Crawleys of the world to the
frequent entertaining of that idea of the bare bodkin.
It was settled that Grace should go to AUington ; — ^but
how about her clothes? And then, whence was to
come the price of her journey ?

" I don't think they '11 mind about my being shabby
at Allington. They live very quietly there."

'' But you say that Miss Dale is so very nice in all
her ways."

" Lily is very nice, mamma ; but I shan't mind her
so much as her mother, because she knows it all. I
have told her everything."

" But you have given me all your money, dearest."

" Miss Prettyman told me I was to come to her,"
said Grace, who had already taken some small sum
from the schoolmistress, which at once had gone into
her mother's pocket, and into household purposes.
" She said I should be sure to go to Allington, and
that of course I should go to her, as I must pass
through Silverbridge."

" I hope papa will not ask about it," said Mrs.

I as THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Crawley. Luckily papa did not ask about it, being at
the moment occupied much with other thoughts and
other troubles, and Grace was allowed to return by
Silverbridge, and to take what was needed from Miss
Prettyman. Who can tell of the mending and patch-
ing, of the weary wearing midnight hours of needle-
work which were accomplished before the poor girl
went, so that she might not reach her friend's house
in actual rags ? And when the work was ended, what
was there to show for it ? I do not think that the idea of
the bare bodkin, as regarded herself, ever flitted across
Mrs. Crawley's brain, — she being one of those who are
very strong to endure ; but it must have occurred to
her very often that the repose of the grave is sweet, and
that there cometh after death a levelling and making
even of things, which would at last cure all her evils.

Grace no doubt looked forward to a levelling and
making even of things, — or perhaps even to something
more prosperous than that, which should come to her
relief on this side of the grave. She could not but
have high hopes in regard to her future destiny. Al-
though, as has been said, she understood no more than
she ought to have understood from Miss Prettyman's
account of the conversation with Major Grantly, still,
innocent as she was, she had understood much. She
knew that the man loved her, and she knew also th^t
she loved the man. She thoroughly comprehended
that the present could be to her no time for listening to
speeches of love, or for giving kind answers ; but still I
think that she did look for relief on this side of the grave.

" Tut, tut," said Mifes Prettyman as Grace in vain
tried to conceal her tears up in the private sanctum.
" You ought to know me by this time, and to have

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 1 23

learned that I can understand things." The tears had
flown in return not only for the five gold sovereigns
which Miss Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but
on account of the prettiest, soft, grey merino frock that
ever charmed a girl's eye. " I should like to know
how many girls I have given dresses to when they have
been going out visiting. Law, my dear; they take
them, many of them, from us old maids, almost as if
we were only paying our debts in giving them." And
then Miss Anne gave her a cloth cloak, very warm,
with pretty buttons and gimp trimmings, — ^just such a
cloak as any girl might like to wear who thought that
she would be seen out walking by her Major Grantly
on a Christmas morning. Grace Crawley did not ex-
pect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but
nevertheless she liked the cloak. By the power of her
practical will, and by her true sympathy, the elder Miss
Prettyman had for a while conquered the annoyance
which, on Grace's part, was attached to the receiving
of gifts, by the consciousness of her poverty ; and
when Miss Anne, with some pride in the tone of her
voice, expressed a hope that Grace would think the
cloak pretty, Grace put her arms pleasantiy round her
friend's neck, and declared that it was very pretty, —
the prettiest cloak in all the world !

Grace was met at the Guestwick railway-station by
her friend Lilian Dale, and was driven over to AUing-
ton in a pony carriage belonging to Lilian's uncle, the
squire of the parish. ' I think she will be excused in
having put on her new cloak, not so much because of
the cold as with a view of making the best of herself
before Mrs. Dale. And yet she knew that Mrs. Dale
would know all the circumstances of her poverty, and

124 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

was very glad that it should be so. " I am so glad that
you have come, dear," said Lilyi " It will be such a
comfort."

" I am sure you are very good," said Grace.

" And mamma is so glad. From the moment that
we both talked ourselves into eagerness about it, —
while I was writing my letter, you know, we resolved
that it must be so."

*' I 'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to Mrs. Dale."

" A trouble to mamma! Indeed you will not. You
shall be a trouble to no one but me. I will have all
the trouble myself, and the labour I delight in shall
physic my pain."

Grace Crawley could not during the journey be at
home and at ease even with her friend Lily. She was
going to a strange house under strange circumstances.
Her father had not indeed been tried and found guilty
of theft, but the charge of theft had been made against
him, and the magistrates before whom it had been made
had thought that the charge was true. Grace knew
that all the local newspapers had told the story, and
was of course aware that Mrs. Dale would have heard
it. Her own mind was full of it, and though she
dreaded to speak of it, yet she could not be silent.
Miss Dale, who understood much of this, endeavoured
to talk her friend into easiness ; but she feared to be-
gin upon the one subject, and before the drive was
over they were, both of them, too cold for much con-
versation. " There 's mamma," said Miss Dale as they
drove up, turning out of the street of the village to the
door of Mrs. Dale's house. " She always knows, by
instinct, when I am coming. You must understand,
now thai^ you are among us, that mamma and I are

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 1 25

not mother and daughter, but two loving old ladies,
living together in peace and harmony. We do have
our quarrels, — whether the chicken shall be roast or
boiled, but never anything beyond that. Mamma,
here is Grace, starved to death ; and she says if you
don't give her some tea she will go back at once."

" I will give her some tea," said Mrs. Dale.

" And I am worse than she is, because I Ve been
driving. It 's all up with Bernard and Mr. Green for
the next week at least. It is freezing as hard as it can
freeze, and they might as well try to hunt in Lapland
as here."

"They '11 console themselves with skating," said
Mrs. Dale.

" Have you ever observed, Grace," said Miss Dale,
" how much amusement gentlemen require, and how
imperative it is that some other game should be pro-
vided when one game fails ? "

" Not particularly," said Grace.

" Oh, but it is so. Now, with women, it is supposed
that they can amuse themselves or live without amuse-
ment. Once or twice in a year, perhaps, something is
done for them. There is an arrow-shooting party, or
a ball, or a picnic. But the catering for men's sport
is never-ending, and is always paramount to everything
else. And yet the pet game of the day never goes off
properly. In partridge time, the partridges are wild,
and won't come to be killed. In hunting time the
foxes won't run straight, — the wretches. They show
no spirit, and will take to ground to save their brushes.
Then comes a nipping frost, and skating is proclaimed ;
but the ice is always rough, and the woodcocks have
deserted the coimtry. And as for salmon! When the

126 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

summer comes round I do really believe that they
suffer a great deal about the salmon. I 'm sure they
never catch any. So they go back to their clubs, and
their cards, and their billiards, and abuse their cooks
and blackball their friends. That 's about it, mamma ;
is it not ? "

" You know more about it than I do, my dear."

" Because I have to listen to Bernard, as you never
will do. We 've got such a Mr. Green down here,
Grace. He 's such a duck of a man, — ^such top-boots
and all the rest of it. And yet they whisper to me that
he does n*t ride always to hoimds. And to see him
play billiards is beautiful, only he never can make a
stroke. I hope you play billiards, Grace, because
uncle Christopher has just had a new table put up."
I never saw a billiard-table yet," said Grace.
Then Mr. Green shall teach you. He 11 do any-
thing that you ask him. If you don't approve the
colour of the ball, he '11 go to London at once to get
you another one. Only you must be very careful
about saying that you like anything before him, as
he '11 be sure to have it for you the next day. Mamma
happened to say that she wanted a fourpenny postage-
stamp, and he walked off to Guestwick to get it for her
instantly, although it was lunch-time."

" He did nothing of the kind, Lily," said her mother.
'* He was going to Guestwick, and was very good-
natured, and brought me back a postage-stamp that I
wanted."

" Of course he 's good-natured ; I know that. And
there 's my cousin Bernard. He 's Captain Dale, you
know. But he prefers to be called Mr. Dale, because
he has left the army, and has set up as junior squire

it
it

GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON. 1 27

of the parish. Uncle Christopher is the real squire ;
only Bernard does all the work. And now you know
all about us. I 'm afraid you '11 find us dull enough,
— unless you can take a fancy to Mr. Green."
** Does Mr. Green live here ? " asked Grace.
" No ; he does not live here. I never heard of his
Kving anywhere. He was something once, but I don't
know what ; and I don't think he 's anything now in
particular. But he 's Bernard's friend, and like most
men, as one sees them, he never has much to do.
Does Major Grantly ever go forth to fight his country's
battles ? " This last question she asked in a low whis-
per, so that the words did not reach her mother. Grace
blushed up to her eyes, however, as she answered, —
I think that Major Grantly has left the army."
We shall get her round in a day or two, mamma,"
said Lily Dale to her mother that night. " I *m sure
it will be the best thing to force her to talk of her
troubles."

I would not use too much force, my dear.*'
Things are better when they 're talked about.
I 'm sure they are. And it will be good to make her
accustomed to speak of Major Grantly. From what
Mary Walker tells me, he certainly means it. And if
so, she should be ready for it when it comes."

" Do hot make her ready fot* what may never come."
" No, mamma ; but she is at present such a child
that she knows nothing of her own powers. She should
be made to understand that it is possible that even a
Major Grantly may think hhnself fortunate in being
allowed to love her."

" I should leave all that to Nature, if I were you,"
said Mrs. Dale.

CHAPTER X.

DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT.

Lord Lufton, as he drove home to Framley after
the meeting of the magistrates at Silverbridge, discussed
the matter with his brother-in-law, Mark Robarts, the
clergyman. Lord Lufton was driving a dog-cart, and
went along the road at the rate of twelve miles an
hour. " I '11 tell you what it is, Mark," he said, " that
man is innocent ; but if he won't employ lawyers at
his trial, the jury will find him guilty."

" I don't know what to think about it," said the
clerg)rman.

" Were you in the room when he protested so vehe-
mently that he did n*t know where he got the money ? "

" I was in the room all the time."
And did you not believe him when he said that ? "
Yes,— I think I did."

Anybody must have believed him,— except old
Tempest, who never believes anybody, and Fothergill,
who always suspects everybody. The truth is, that he
had found the cheque and put it by, and did not re-
member anything about it."

" But, Lufton, surely that would amount to steal-
ing it."

" Yes, if it was n't that he is such a poor, cracked,

crazy creature, with his mind all abroad. I think

128

it
it
tt

DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 129

Soames did drop his book in his house. I *m sure
Soames would not say so unless he was quite confident.
Somebody has picked it up, and in some way the
cheque has got into Crawley's hand. Then he has
locked it up and has forgotten all about it ; and when
that butcher threatened him, he has put his hand upon
it, and he has thought, or believed, that it had come
from Soames or from the dean,^-or from heaven, if
you will. When a man Is so crazy as that, you can't
judge of him as you do of others."

"But a jury must judge of him as it would of
others."

" And therefore there should be a lawyer to tell the
jury what to do. They should have somebody up out
of the parish to show that he is beside himself half his
time. His wife would be the best person, only it would
be hard lines on her."

" Very hard. And after all he would only escape
by being shown to be toad.'*

" And he is mad."

" Mrs. Proudie would come upon him in such a case
as that, and sequester his living."

" And what will Mrs. Proudie do when he 's a con-
victed thief ? Simply unfrock him, and take away his
living altogether. Nothing on earth should induce me
to find him guilty if I were on a jury."

" But you have committed him."

" Yes, — I 've been one, at least, in doing so. I
simply did what Walker told us we must do. A mag-
istrate is not left to himself as a juryman is. I 'd eat
the biggest pair of boots in Barchester before I found
him guilty. I say, Mark, you must talk it over with

the women, and see what can be done for them. Lucy
VOL. I. — 9

130 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

tells me that they *re so poor, that if they have bread
to eat, it 's as much as they have."

On this evening Archdeacon Grantly and his wife
dined and slept at Framley Court, there having been
a very long family friendship between old Lady Luf-
ton and the Grantlys, and Dr. Thome, with his wife,
from Chaldicotes, also dined at Framley. There was
also there another clergyman from Barchester, Mr.
Champion, one of the prebendaries of the cathedral.
There were only three now who had houses in the city
since the retrenchments of the Ecclesiastical Commis-
sion had come into full force. And this Mr. Champion
was dear to the Dowager Lady Lufton, because he
carried on worthily the clerical war against the bishop
which had raged in Barsetshire ever since Dr. Proudie
had come there, — ^which war old Lady Lufton, good
and pious and charitable as she was, considered that
she was bound to keep up, even to the knife, till Dr.
Proudie and all his satellites should have been banished
into outer darkness. As the light of the Proudies still
shone brightly, it was probable that poor old Lady
Lufton might die before her battle was accomplished.
She often said that it would be so, but when so saying,
always expressed a wish that the fight might be carried
on after her death. " I shall never, never rest in my
grave," she had once said to the archdeacon, " while
that woman sits in your father's palace." For the
archdeacon's father had been Bishop of Barchester be-
fore Dr. Proudie. What mode of getting rid of the
bishop or his wife Lady Lufton proposed to herself, I
am unable to say ; but I think she lived in hopes that
in some way it might be done. If only the bishop
could have been found to have stolen a cheque for

DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. I31

twenty pounds instead of poor Mr. Crawley, Lady
Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied.

In the course of these battles Framley Court would
sometimes assume a clerical aspect, — have a prevail-
ing hue, as it were, of black coats, which was not alto-
gether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to which
he would make complaint to his wife, and to Mark
Robarts, himself a clergyman. " There 's more of this
than I can stand," he 'd say to the latter. ** There 's
a deuced deal more of it than you like yourself, I
know."

" It 's not for me to like or dishke. It 's a great
thing having your mother in the parish."

" That 's all very well ; and of coiu^e she *11 do as
she likes. She may ask whom she pleases here, and I
shan't interfere. It *s the same as though it was her
own house. But I shall take Lucy to Lufton." Now
Lord Lufton had been building his house at Lufton
for the last seven years, and it was not yet finished, —
or nearly finished, if all that his wife and mother said
was true. And if they could have their way, it never
would be finished. And so, in order that Lord Lufton
might not be actually driven away by the turmoils of
ecclesiastical contest, the younger Lady Lufton would
endeavour to moderate both the wrath and the zeal of
the elder one, and would struggle against the coming
clergymen. On this day, however, three sat at the
board at Framley, and Lady Lufton, in her justifica-
tion to her son, swore that the invitation had been
given by her daughter-in-law. " You know, my dear,"
the dowager said to Lord Lufton, " something must be
done for these poor Crawleys ; and as the dean is away
Lucy wants to speak to the archdeacon about them."

132 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

"And the archdeacon could not subscribe his ten-
pound note without having Mr. Champion to back
him ? "

" My dear Ludovic, you do put it in such a way."

" Never mind, mother. I Ve no special dishke to
Champion ; only as you are not paid five thousand a
year for your trouble, it is rather hard that you should
have to do all the work of opposition bishop in the
diocese."

It was felt by them all, — ^including Lord Lufton him-
self, who became so interested in the matter as to for-
give the black coats before the evening was over, — that
this matter of Mr. Crawley's committal was very seri-
ous, and demanded the full energies of their party. It
was known to them all that the feeling at the palace
was inimical to Mr. Crawley. "That she-Beelzebub
hates him for his poverty, and because Arabin brought
him into the diocese," said the archdeacon, permitting
himself to use very strong language in his allusion to
the bishop's wife. It must be recorded on his behalf
that he used the phrase in the presence only of the
gentlemen of the party. I think he might have whis-
pered the word into the ear of his confidential friend
old Lady Lufton, and perhaps have given no offence ;
but he would not have ventured to use such words
aloud in the presence of ladies.

" You forget, archdeacon," said Dr. Thome, laugh-
ing, "that the she-Beelzebub is my wife's particular
friend."

" Not a bit of it," said the archdeacon. " Your wife
knows better than that. You tell her what I call her,
and if she complains of the name, I '11 unsay it." It
may therefore be supposed that Dr. Thorne, and Mrs.

DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. 133

Thome, and the archdeacon, knew each other inti-
mately, and understood each other's feelings on these
matters.

It was quite true that the palace party was inimical
to Mr. Crawley. Mr. Crawley undoubtedly was poor,
and had not been so submissive to episcopal authority
as it behoves any clergyman to be whose loaves and
fishes are scanty. He had raised his back more than
once against orders emanating from the palace in a
manner that had made the hairs on the head of the
bishop's wife to stand almost on end, and had taken
as much upon himself as though his living had been
worth twelve hundred a year. Mrs. Proudie, almost
as energetic in her language as the archdeacon, had
called him a beggarly perpetual curate. " We must
have perpetual curates, my dear," the bishop had said.
" They should know their places then. But what can
you expect of a creature from the deanery? All
that ought to be altered. The dean should have no
patronage in the diocese. No dean should have any
patronage. It is an abuse from the beginning to the
end. Dean Arabin, if he had any conscience, would
be doing the duty at Hogglestock himself." How the
bishop strove to teach his wife, with mildest words,
what really ought to be a dean's duty, and how the
wife rejoined by teaching her husband, not in the
mildest words, what ought to be a bishop's duty, we
will not further inquire here. The fact that such dia-
logues took place at the palace is recorded simply to
show that the palatial feeling in Barchester ran counter
to Mr. Crawley.

And this was cause enough, if no other cause ex-
isted, for partiality to Mr. Crawley at Framley Court.

134 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

But, as has been partly explained, there existed, if pos-
sible, even stronger ground than this for adherence to
the Crawley cause. The younger Lady Lufton had
known the Crawleys intimately, and the elder Lady
Lufton had reckoned them among the neighbouring
clerical families of her acquaintance. Both these ladies
were therefore staunch in their defence of Mr. Craw-
ley. The archdeacon himself had his own reasons, —
reasons which for the present he kept altogether within
his own bosom, — for wishing that Mr. Crawley had
never entered the diocese. Whether the perpetual
curate should or should not be declared to be a thief,
it would be terrible to him to have to call the child of
that perpetual curate his daughter-in-law. But not the
less on this occasion was he true to his order, true to
his side in the diocese, true to his hatred of the palace.

" I don't believe it for a moment," he said, as he
took his place on the rug before the fire in the draw-
ing-room when the gentlemen came in from their wine.
The ladies understood at once what it was that he
could n't believe. Mr. Crawley had for the moment
so usurped the county that nobody thought of talking
of anything else.

"How is it, then," said Mrs. Thome, "that Lord
Lufton, and my husband, and the other wiseacres at
Silverbridge, have committed him for trial ? "

" Because we were told to do so by the lawyer," said
Dr. Thome.

" Ladies will never understand that magistrates must
act in accordance with the law," said Lord Lufton.

" But you all say he *s not guilty," said Mrs. Rob-
arts.

"The fact is, that the magistrates cannot try the

DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT. X35

question," said the archdeacon ; " they only hear the
primary evidence. In this case I don't believe Crawley
would ever have been committed if he had employed
an attorney, instead of speaking for himself."

" Why did n't somebody make him have an attor-
ney ? " said Lady Lufton.

" I don't think any attorney in the world could have
spoken for him better than he spoke for himself," said
Dr. Thome.

And yet you committed him," said his wife.
What can we do for him ? Can't we pay the bail and
send him off to America ? "

" A jury will never find him guilty," said Lord Luf-
ton.

" And what is the truth of it ? " asked the younger
Lady Lufton.

Then the whole matter was discussed again, and it
was settled among them all that Mr. Crawley had
undoubtedly appropriated the cheque through tempo-
rary obliquity of judgment, — obliquity of judgment and
forgetfulness as to the source from whence the cheque
had come to him. " He has picked it up about the
house, and then has thought that it was his own," said
Lord Lufton. Had they come to the conclusion that
such an appropriation of money had been made by one
of the clergy of the palace, by one of the Proudiean
party, they would doubtless have been very loud and
very bitter as to the iniquity of the offender. They would
have said much as to the weakness of the bishop and
the wickedness of the bishop's wife, and would have
declared the appropriator to have been as very a thief
as ever picked a pocket or opened a till ; — ^but they
were unanimous in their acquittal of Mr. Crawley. It

136 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

had not been his intention, they said, to be a thief, and
a man should be judged only by his intention. It
must now be their object to induce a Baxchester jury
to look at the matter in the same light.

" When they come to understand how the land lies,"
said the archdeacon, " they will be all right. There 's
not a tradesman in the city who does not hate that
woman as though she were "

" Archdeacon," said his wife, cautioning him to re-
press his energy.

" Their bills are all paid by this new chaplain they Ve
got, and he is made to claim discount on every leg of
mutton," said the archdeacon. Arguing from which
fact, — or from which assertion, he came to the conclu-
sion that no Barchester jury would find Mr. Crawley
guilty.

But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be
well to trust to the unassisted friendship of the Bar-
chester tradesmen. Mr. Crawley must be provided
with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to him
whether he should be willing or unwilling to receive
it. That there would be a difficulty was acknowledged.
Mr. Crawley was known to be a man not easy of per-
suasion, with a will of his own, with a great energy of
obstinacy on points which he chose to take up as be-
ing of importance to his calling, or to his own profes-
sional status. He had pleaded his own cause before
the magistrates, and it might be that he would insist
on doing the same thing before the judge. At last
Mr. Robarts, the clergyman of Framley, was deputed
from the knot of Crawleian advocates assembled in
Lady Lufton's drawing-room, to undertake the duty
of seeing Mr. Crawley, and of explaining to him that

DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURX. I37

his proper defence was regarded as a matter appertain-
ing to the clergy and gentry generally of that part of
the country, and that for the sake of the clergy and
gentry the defence must of course be properly con-
ducted. In such circumstances the expense of the de-
fence would of course be borne by the clergy and
gentry concerned. It was thought that Mr. Robarts
could put the matter to Mr. Crawley with such a mix-
ture of the strength of manly friendship and the soft-
ness of clerical persuasion, as to overcome the recog-
nized difficulties of the task.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION.

Tidings of Mr. Crawley's fate reached the palace
at Barchester on the afternoon of the day on which
the magistrates had committed him. All such tidings
travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires,
and distributed by indefatigable message boys whom
Rumour seems to supply for the purpose. Barchester
is twenty miles from Silverbridge by road, and more
than forty by railway. I doubt whether any one was
commissioned to send the news along the actual tele-
graph, and yet Mrs. Proudie knew it before four
o'clock. But she did not know it quite accurately.
" Bishop," she said, standing at her husband's study-
door, " they have committed that man to gaol. There
was no help for them unless they had forsworn them-
selves."

"Not forsworn themselves, my dear," said the
bishop, striving, as was usual with him, by some meek
and ineffectual word to teach his wife that she was
occasionally led by. her energy into error. He never
persisted in the lessons when he found, as was usual,
that they were taken amiss.

"I say forsworn themselves!" said Mrs. Proudie;
" and now what do you mean to do ? This is Thurs-
day, and of course the man must not be allowed to

138

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 1 39

desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing
the Sunday services."

" If he has been committed, my dear, and is in
prison "

" I said nothing about prison, bishop."

" Gaol, my dear."

" I say they have committed him to gaol. So my
informant tells me. But of course all the Plumstead
and Framley set will move heaven and earth to get
him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the
diocese. I wonder how the dean will feel when he
hears of it! I do, indeed. For the dean, though he
is an idle, useless man, with no church principles, and
no real piety, still he has a conscience. I think he
has a conscience."

" I 'm sure he has, my dear."

"Well; — ^let us hope so. And if he has a con-
science, what must be his feelings when he hears that
this creature whom he brought into the diocese has
been committed to gaol along with common felons."

" Not with felons, my dear ; at least I should think
not."

" I say with common felons! A downright robbery
of twenty pounds, just as though he had broken into
the bank! And so he did, with sly artifice, which is
worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now what
are we to do ? Here is Thursday, and something must
be done before Sunday for the souls of those poor
benighted creatures at Hogglestock." Mrs. Proudie
was ready for the battle, and was even now sniffing the
blood afar-off. " I believe it *s a hundred and thirty
pounds a year," she said, before the bishop had col-
lected his thoughts sufficiently for a reply.

140 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is
really to be shiit up in prison," said the bishop.

" And suppose he is not to be shut up ? Suppose
they have been weak, or untrue to their duty — ^and
from what we know of the magistrates of Barsetshire,
there is too much reason to suppose that they will
have been so ; suppose they have let him out, is he to
go about like a roaring hon, — ^among the souls of the
people ? "

The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs. Proudie
began to talk of the souls of the people he always
shook in his shoes. She had an eloquent way of rais-
ing her voice over the word souls that was qualified
to make any ordinary man shake in his shoes. The
bishop was a conscientious man, and well knew that
poor Mr. Crawley, even though he might have become
a thief under terrible temptation, would not roar at
Hogglestock to the injury of any man's soul. He was
aware that this poor clergyman had done his duty
laboriously and efficiently, and he was also aware that
though he might have been committed by the magis-
trates, and then let out upon bail, he should not be
regarded now, in these days before his trial, as a con-
victed thief. But to explain all this to Mrs. Proudie
was beyond his power. He knew well that she would
not hear a word in mitigation of Mr. Crawley's pre-
srnned offence. Mr. Crawley belonged to the other
party, and Mrs. Proudie was a thorough-going partisan.
I know a man, — an excellent fellow, who, being him-
self a strong politician, constantly expresses a belief
that all politicians opposed to him are thieves, child-
murderers, parricides, lovers of incest, demons upon
the earth. He is a strong partisan, but not, I think,

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. I41

SO Strong as Mrs. Proudie. He says that he believes
all evil of his opponents ; but she really believed the
evil. The archdeacon had called Mrs. Proudie a she-
Beelzebub ; but that was a simple ebullition of mortal
hatred. He believed her to be simply a vulgar, inter-
fering, brazen-faced virago. Mrs. Proudie in truth
believed that the archdeacon was an actual emanation
from Satan, sent to those parts to devour souls, — as
she would call it, — and that she herself was an emana-
tion of another sort, sent from another source expressly
to Barchester, to prevent such devouring, as far as it
might possibly be prevented by a mortal agency. The
bishop knew it all, — understood it all. He regarded
the archdeacon as a clergyman belonging to a party
opposed to his party, and he disliked the man. He
knew that from his first coming into the diocese he
had been encountered with enmity by the archdeacon
and the archdeacon's friends. If left to himself he
could feel and to a certain extent could resent such
enmity. But he had no faith in his wife's doctrine of
emanations. He had no faith in many things which
she believed religiously ; — ^and yet what could he do ?
If he attempted to explain, she would stop him before
he had got through the first half of his first sentence.

" If he is out on bail " commenced the bishop.

" Of course he will be out on bail."

" Then I think he should feel "

" Feel! such men never feel! What feeling can one
expect from a convicted thief ? "

" Not convicted as yet, my dear," said the bishop.

"A convicted thief!" repeated Mrs. Proudie; and
she vociferated the words in such a tone that the bishop
resolved that he would for the future let the word con-

142 THE LAST CHRONICLE GF BARSET.

victed pass without notice. After all she was only
using the phrase in a peculiar sense given to it by
herself.

" It won't be proper, certainly, that he should do
the services," suggested the bishop.

" Proper! It would be a scandal to the whole dio-
cese. How could he»raise his head as he pronounced
the eighth commandment? That must be at least
prevented."

The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his
chair, moving about with little movements. He knew
that there was a misery coming upon him ; and, as far
as he could see, it might become a great misery, a
huge blistering sore upon him. When miseries came
to him, as they did not infrequently, he would uncon-
sciously endeavour to fathom them and weigh them,
and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear them, if
he could find that their depth and weight were not
too great for his powers of endurance. He would let
the cold wind whistle by him, putting up the collar of
his coat, and would encounter the winter weather with-
out complaint. And he would be patient under the
hot sun, knowing well that tranquillity is best for those
who have to bear tropical heat. But when the storm
threatened to knock him off his legs, when the earth
beneath him became too hot for his poor tender feet,
— ^what could he do then ? There had been with him
such periods of misery, during which he had wailed
inwardly and had confessed to himself that the wife
of his bosom was too much for him. Now the storm
seemed to be coming very roughly. It would be de-
manded of him that he should exercise certain episco-
pal authority which he knew did not belong to him.

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION.

143

Now, episcopal authority admits of being stretched or
contracted, according to the character of the bishop
who uses it. It is not always easy for a bishop him-
self to know what he may do, and what he may not
do. He may certainly give advice to any clergyman
in his diocese, and he may give it in such form that it
will have in it something of authority. Such advice
coming from a dominant bishop to a clergyman with
a submissive mind has in it very much of authority.
But Bishop Proudie knew that Mr. Crawley was not a
clergyman with a submissive mind, and he feared that
he himself, as regarded from Mr. Crawley's point of
view, was not a dominant bishop. And yet he could
only act by advice. " I will write to him," said the
bishop, " and will explain to him that as he is circum-
stanced he should not appear in the reading-desk."

" Of course he must not appear in the reading-desk.
That scandal must at any rate be inhibited." Now
the bishop did not at all hke the use of the word in-
hibited, understanding well that Mrs. Proudie intended
it to be understood as implying some episcopal com-
mand against which there should be no appeal ; — ^but
he let it pass.

I will write to him, my dear, to-night."

And Mr. Thumble can go over with the letter the
first thing in the morning."

Will not the post be better ? "

No, bishop ; certainly not."

He would get it sooner, if I write to-night, my
dear."

" In either case he will get it to-morrow morning.
An hour or two will not signify, and if Mr. Thunible
takes it Imnself we shall know how it is received. It

144 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

will be well that Thumble should be there in person as
he will want to look for lodgings in the parish."

" But, my dear "

" WeU, bishop ? "

" About lodgings ? I hardly think that Mr. Thum-
ble, if we decide that Mr. Thumble shall undertake
the duty "

" We have decided that Mr. Thumble should under-
take the duty. That is decided."

" But I do not think he should trouble himself to
look for lodgings at Hogglestock. He can go over on
the Sundays."

" And who is to do the parish work ? Would you have
that man, a convicted thief, to look after the schools,
and visit the sick, and perhaps attend the djring ? "

" There will be a great difficulty ; there will indeed,"
said the bishop, becoming very unhappy, and feeling
that he was driven by circumstances either to assert
his own knowledge or teach his wife something of the
law with reference to his position as a bishop. " Who
«is to pay Mr. Thumble ? "

"The income of the parish must be sequestrated,
and he must be paid out of that. Of course he must
have the income while he does the work."

" But, my dear, I cannot sequestrate the man's in-
come."

" I don't believe it, bishop. If the bishop cannot
sequestrate it, who can ? But you are always timid in
exercising the authority put into your hands for wise
purposes. Not sequestrate the income of a man who
has been proved to be a thief! You leave that to us,
and we will manage it." The " us " here named com-
prised Mrs. Proudie and the bishop's managing chaplain.

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. 145

Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write
the letter which Mr. Thumble was to carry over to
Mr. Crawley, — and after a while he did write it. Be-
fore he commenced the task, however, he sat for some
moments in his arm-chair close by the fireside, asking
himself whether it might not be possible for him to
overcome his enemy in this matter. How would it go
with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten,
and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs. Proudie,
saying that as Mr. Crawley was out on bail, the parish
might be left for the present without episcopal interfer-
ence ? She could not make him interfere. She could
not force him to write the letter. So, at least, he said
to himself. But as he said it, he almost thought that
she could do these things. In the last thirty years, or
more, she had ever contrived by some power latent in
her to have her will effected. But what would hap-
pen, if now, even now, he were to rebel ? That he
would personally become very uncomfortable, he was
well aware, but he thought that he could bear that.
The food would become bad, — ^mere ashes between his
teeth ; the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour ;
the chimneys would all smoke ; the wind would come
from the east, and the servants would not answer the
bell. Little miseries of that kind would crowd upon
him. He had arrived at a time of life in which such
miseries make such men very miserable ; but yet he
thought that he could endure them. And what other
wretchedness would come to him ? She would scold
him, frightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse than all,
continually. But of this he had so much habitually,
that anything added might be borne also ; — if only he
could be sure that the scoldings should go on in pri-

VOL. I. — 10

146 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

vate, that the world of the palace should not be allowed
to hear the revilings to which he would be subjected.
But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which he
dreaded beyond all evils. He was well aware that the
palace would know his misfortune, that it was known,
and freely discussed by all, from the examining chap-
lain down to the palace boot-boy ; — ^nay, that it was
known to all the diocese ; but yet he could smile upon
those around him, and look as though he held his own
like other men, — ^unless when open violence was dis-
played. But when that voice was heard aloud along
the corridors of the palace, and when he was summoned
imperiously by the woman, calling for her bishop, so
that all Barchester heard it, and when he was com-
pelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of
that summons, with distressed face, and shaking hands,
and short, hunying steps, — a being to be pitied even
by a deacon, — ^not venturing to assume an air of mas-
terdom should he chance to meet a housemaid on thie
stairs, — ^then, at such moments as that, he would feel
that any submission was better than the misery which
he suffered. And he well knew that should he now
rebel, the whole house would be in a turmoil. He
would be bishoped here, and bishoped there, before
the eyes of all palatial men and women, till life would
be a burden to him. So he got up from his seat over
the fire, and went to his desk and wrote the letter.
The letter was as follows : —

" The Palace, Barchester, December, i86— .
" Reverend Sir," — (he left out the dear, because he
knew that if he inserted it he would be compelled to
write the letter over again) — " I have heard to-day.

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. I47

with the greatest trouble of spirit, that you have been
taken before a bench of magistrates assembled at
Silverbridge, having been previously arrested by the
police in your parsonage-house at Hogglestock, and
that the magistrates of Silverbridge have committed
you to take your trial at the next assizes at Barchester,
on a charge of theft.

" Far be it from me to prejudge the case. You will
understand, reverend sir, that I express no opinion
whatever as to your guilt or innocence in this matter.
If you have been guilty, may the Lord give you grace
to repent of your great sin, and to make such amends
as may come from immediate acknowledgment and
confession. If you are innocent may He protect you,
and make your innocence to shine before all men. In
either case may the Lord be with you and keep your
feet from further stumbling.

" But I write to you now as your bishop, to explain
to you that, circumstanced as you are, you cannot
with decency perform the church services of your par-
ish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt not
you will agree with me in this, and be grateful to me
for reheving you so far from the immediate perplex-
ities of your position. I have, therefore, appointed the
Rev. Caleb Thumble to perform the duties of incum-
bent of Hogglestock till such time as a jury shall have
decided upon your case at Barchester ; and in order
that you may at once become acquainted with Mr.
Thumble, as will be most convenient that you should
do, I will commission him to deliver this letter into
your hand personally to-morrow, trusting that you will
receive him with that brotherly spirit in which he is
sent upon this painful mission.

'>>

148 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Touching the remuneration to which Mr. Thumble
will become entitled for his temporary ministrations
in the parish of Hogglestock, I do not at present lay
down any strict injunction. He must, at any rate, be
paid at a rate not less than that ordinarily afforded for
a curate.

" I will once again express my fervent hope that the
Lord may bring you to see the true state of your own
soul, and that He may fill you with the grace of re-
pentance, so that the bitter waters of the present hour
may not pass over your head and destroy you.
" I have the honour to be,

'* Reverend Sir,
" Your faithful servant in Christ,

" T. Barnum." *

The bishop had hardly finished his letter when Mrs.
Proudie returned to the study, followed by the Rev.
Caleb Thumble. Mr. Thumble was a little man, about
forty years of age, who had a wife and children living
in Barchester, and who existed on such chance clerical
crumbs as might fall from the table of the bishop's
patronage. People in Barchester said that Mrs.
Thumble was a cousin of Mrs. Proudie's; but as
Mrs. Proudie stoutly denied the connection it may be
supposed that the people of Barchester were wrong.
Had Mr. Thumble*s wife in truth been a cousin, Mrs.
Proudie would surely have provided for him during
the many years in which the diocese had been in her
hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr.

* Baronum Castrum having been the old Roman name from
which the modem Barchester is derived, the bishops of the dio-
cese have always signed themselves Barnum.

THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION. I49

Thumble, who had now been living in the diocese for
three years, had received nothing else from the bishop
than such chance employment as this which he was
now to undertake at Hogglestock. He was a humble,
mild-voiced man when within the palace precincts,
and had so far succeeded in making his way among
his brethren in the cathedral city as to be employed
not unfrequently for absent minor canons in chanting
the week-day services, being remunerated for his work
at the rate of about five shillings a service.

The bishop handed his letter to his wife, observing
in an off-hand kind of way that she might as well see
what he said. " Of course I shall read it," said Mrs.
Proudie. And the bishop winced visibly, because
Mr. Thumble was present. " Quite right," said Mrs.
Proudie, " quite right to let him know that you knew
that he had been arrested, — actually arrested by the
police."

" I thought it proper to mention that, because of the
scandal," said the bishop.

" Oh, it has been terrible in the city," said Mr.
Thumble.

" Never mind, Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie.
" Never mind that at present." Then she continued
to read the letter. " What *s this ? Confession ! That
must come out, bishop. It will never do that you
should recommend confession to anybody, under any
circumstances."

" But, my dear "

" It must come out, bishop."

"My lord has not meant auricular confession,"
suggested Mr. Thumble. Then Mrs. Proudie turned
round and looked at Mr. Thumble, and Mr. Thumble

150 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

nearly sank amidst the tables and chairs. " I beg
your pardon, Mrs. Proudie," he said. " I did n't
mean to intrude."

" The word must come out, bishop," repeated Mrs.
Proudie. "There should be no stumbling-blocks pre-
pared for feet that are only too ready to fall." And
the word did come out.

*' Now, Mr. Thumble," said the lady, as she gave
the letter to her satellite, " the bishop and I wish you
to be at Hogglestock early to-morrow. You should
be there not later than ten, certainly." Then she
paused until Mr. Thumble had given the required
l)romise. " And we request that you will be very firm
in the mission which is confided to you, a mission
which, as of course you see, is of a very delicate and
important nature. You must be firm."

" I will endeavour," said Mr. Thumble.

" The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortu-
nate man must not under any circumstances be allowed
to perform the services of the church while this charge
is hanging over him, — a charge as to the truth of which
no sane man can entertain a doubt."

I *m afraid not, Mrs. Proudie," said Mr. Thumble.
The bishop and I, therefore, are most anxious that
you should make Mr. Crawley understand at once — at
once," and the fady, as she spoke, Kfted up her left hand
with an eloquent violence which had its effect upon
Mr. Thumble, " that he is inhibited," — the bishop shook
in his shoes, — " inhibited from the performance of any
of his sacred duties." Thereupon Mr. Thumble prom-
ised obedience and went his way.

CHAPTER XII.

MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY.

Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage-
house at Hogglestock. On the Friday morning, the
morning of the day after his committal, Mr. Crawley
got up very early, long before the daylight, and dress-
ing himself in the dark, groped his way downstairs.
His wife having vainly striven to persuade him to re-
main where he was, followed him into the cold room
below with a lighted candle. She found him standing
with his hat on and with his old cloak, as though he
were prepared to go out. " Why do you do this ? " she
said. " You will make yourself ill with the cold and
the night air ; and then you, and I too, will be worse
than we now are."

" We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and
for me it does not signify. Let me pass."

" I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and
bear it. Ask God for strength, instead of seeking it in
an over-indulgence of your own sorrow."

"Indulgence!"

"Yes, love; — indulgence. It is indulgence. You
will allow your mind to dwell on nothing for a moment
but your own wrongs."

" What else have I that I can think of ? Is not all
the world against me ? "

151

152 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Am I against you ? "

" Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me
of self-indulgence you are against me, — me, who for
myself have desired nothing but to be allowed to do
my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive,
and clothes enough to make me decent."

" Is it not self-indulgence, this giving way to grief ?
Who would know so well as you how to teach the les-
son of endurance to others ? Come, love. Lay down
your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should go out
into the wet and cold of the raw morning."

For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her
hand to take his cloak from him he drew back from
her, and would not permit it. " I shall find those up
whom I want to see," he said. " I must visit my flock,
and I dare not go through the parish by daylight lest
they hoot after me as a thief."

" Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to
insult you."

" Would they not ? The very children in the school
whisper at me. Let me pass, I say. It has not as yet
come to that, that I should be stopped in my egress
and ingress. They have — bailed me ; and while their
bail lasts, I may go where I will."

"Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever
stopped your liberty ? Would I not give my life to
secure it ? "

" Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have
business in hand."

" But I will go with you ! I will be ready in an
instant."

" You go ? Why should you go ? Are there not the
children for you to mind ? "

MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 1 53

" There is only Jane."

" Stay with her, then. Why should you go about
the parish ? " She still held him by the cloak, and
looked anxiously up into his face. " Woman," he said,
raising his voice, " what is it that you dread ? I com-
mand you to tell me what is it that you fear ? " He
had now taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly
thrusting her from him, so that he might see her face
by the dim light of the single candle. " Speak, I say.
What is it that you think that I shall do ? "

" Dearest, I know that you will be better at home,
better with me, than you can be on such a morning as
this out in the cold damp air."

" And is that all ? " He looked hard at her, while
she returned his gaze with beseeching, loving eyes.
" Is there nothing behind, that you will not tell me ? "

She paused for a moment before she replied. She
had never lied to him. She could not lie to him. " I
wish you knew my heart towards you," she said, " with
all and everything in it."

" I know your heart well, but I want to know your
mind. Why would you persuade me not to go out
among my poor ? "

" Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in
the dark lanes, in the mud and wet, thinking of your
sorrow. You will brood over it till you lose your senses
through the intensity of your grief. You will stand
out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around
you, till your limbs will be numbed, and your blood
chilled, "

" And then ? "

" Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at
me so angrily."

154 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord
in His mercy shall see fit to relieve me. Even then I
will endure, though a bare bodkin or a leaf of hemlock
would put an end to it. Let me pass on ; you need
fear nothing."

She did let him pass without another word, and he
went out of the house, shutting the door after him
noiselessly, and closing the wicket-gate of the garden.
For a while she sat herself down on the nearest chair,
and tried to make up her mind how she might best
treat him in his present state of mind. As regarded
the present morning her heart was at ease. She knew
that he would do now nothing of that which she had
apprehended. She could trust him not to be false in
his word to her, though she could not before have
trusted him not to commit so much heavier a sin. If
he would really employ himself from morning till night
among the poor, he would be better bo, — his trouble
would be easier of endurance, — ^than with any other
employment which he could adopt. What she most
dreaded was that he should sit idle over the fire and do
nothing. When he was so seated she could read his
mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She
had been quite right when she had accused him of
over-indulgence in his grief. He did give way to it
till it became a luxury to him, — a luxury which she
would not have had the heart to deny him had she not
felt it to he of all luxuries the most pernicious. Dur-
ing these long hours, in which he would sit speechless,
doing nothing, he was telling himself from minute to
minute that of all God^s creatures he was the most
heavily afflicted, and was revelling in the sense of the
injustice done to him. He was recalling all the facts

MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 155

of his life, his education, which had been costly, and,
as regarded knowledge, successful ; his vocation to the
church, when in his youth he had determined to devote
himself to the service of his Saviour, disregarding pro-
motion or the favour of men ; the short, sweet days of
his early love, in which he had devoted himself again,
— thinking nothing of self, but everything of her ; his
diligent working, in which he had ever done his very
utmost for the parish in which hie was placed, and
always his best for the poorest ; the success of other
men who had been his compeers, and, as he too often
told himself, intellectually his inferiors ; then of his
children, who had been carried off from his love to the
churchyard, — over whose graves he himself had stood,
reading out the pathetic words of the funeral service
with unswerving voice and a bleeding heart ; and then
of his children still living, who loved their mother so
much better than they loved him. And he would re-
call all the circumstances of his poverty, — ^how he had
been driven to accept alms, to fly from creditors, to
hide himself, to see his chairs and tables seized before
the eyes of those over whom he had been set as their
spiritual pastor. And in it all, I think, there was noth-
ing so bitter to the man as the derogation from the
spiritual grandeur of his position as priest among men,
which came as one necessary result from his poverty.
St. Paul could go forth without money in his purse, or
shoes to his feet, or two suits to his back, and his pov-
erty never stood in the way of his preaching, or hin-
dered the veneration of the faithful. St. Paul, indeed,
was called upon to bear stripes, was flung into prison,
encountered terrible dangers. But Mr. Crawley, — so
he told himself,— could have encountered all that with-

IS6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

out flinching. The stripes and scorn of the unfaithful
would have been nothing to him, if only the faithful
would have beb'eved in him, poor as he was, as they
would have believed in him had he been rich! Even
they whom he had most loved treated him almost with
derision, because he was now different from them.
Dean Arabin had laughed at him because he had per-
sisted in walking ten miles through the mud instead of
being conveyed in the dean's carriage ; and yet, after
that, he had been driven to accept the dean's char-
ity! No one respected him. No one! His very wife
thought that he was a lunatic. And now he had been
publicly branded as a thief ; and in all likelihood would
end his days in a gaol! Such were always his thoughts
as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire ; and his wife
well knew their currents. It would certainly be better
that he should drive himself to some emplojonent, if
any employment could be found possible to him.

When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs.
Crawley got up from her chair, and going into the
kitchen, lighted the fire there, and put the kettle over
it, and began to prepare such breakfast for her husband
as the means in the house afforded. Then she called
the sleeping servant-girl, who was little more than a
child, and went into her own girl's room, and then she
got into bed with her daughter.

" I have been up with your papa, dear, and I am
cold."

"Oh, mamma, poor mammal Why is papa up so
early ? "

" He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers
before they go to their work. It is better for him to
be employed."

MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 1 57

" But, mamma, it is pitch dark! "

" Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while,
and I will sleep too. I think Grace will be here to-
night, and then there will be no room for me here."

Mr. Crawley went forth and made his way with
rapid steps to a portion of his parish nearly two miles
distant from his house, through which was carried a
canal, affording water communication in some intricate
way both to London and Bristol. And on the brink
of this canal there had sprung up a colony of brick-
makers, the nature of the earth in those parts combin-
ing with the canal to make brickmaking a suitable
trade, ^he workmen there assembled were not, for
the most part, native-bom Hogglestockians, or folk
descended from Hogglestockian parents. They had
come thither from unknown regions, as laboiwers of
that class do come when they are needed. Some
young men from that and neighbouring parishes had
joined themselves to the colony, allured by wages, and
disregarding the menaces of the neighbouring farmers ;
but they were all in appearance and manners nearer
akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural
labourers. They had a bad name in the country ; but
it may be that their name was worse than their deserts.
The farmers hated them, and consequently they hated
the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer's
shop, and a huckster's shop for their own accommo-
dation, and were consequently vilified by the small old-
established tradesmen around them. They got drunk
occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more
than did the farmers themselves on market-day. They
fought among themselves sometimes, but they forgave
each other freely, and seemed to have no objection to

158 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to
their wives, nor were their wives always good to them ;
but it should be remembered that among the poor,
especially when they live in clusters, such misfortunes
cannot be hidden as they may be amidst the decent be-
longings of more wealthy people. That they worked
very hard was certain; and it was certain also that
very few of their number ever came upon the poor-
rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one
knew. Who ever sees a worn-out aged navvie ?

Mr. Crawley, ever since his first coming into Hog-
glestock, had been very busy among these brickmakers,
and by no means without success. Indeed, the farm-
ers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers
had so crowded the narrow parish church as to leave
but scant room for decent people. " Doo they folk
pay tithes ? That *s what I want 'un to tell me," ar-
gued one farmer, — ^not altogether unnaturally, believ-
ing as he did that Mr. Crawley was paid by tithes out
of his own pocket. But Mr. Crawley had done his
best to make the brickmakers welcome at the chiu-ch,
scandalising the farmers by causing them to sit or stand
in any portion of the church which was hitherto unap-
propriated. He had been constant in his personal
visits to them, and had felt himself to be more a St.
Paul with them than with any other of his neighbours
around him.

It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding
evening had given way to frost, and the air, though
sharp, was dry. The ground under the feet was crisp,
having felt the wind and frost, and was no longer
clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the
walk was good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated

MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 1 59

him ; but still, as he went, he thought always of his in-
juries. His own wife believed that he was about to
commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry
with her ; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of mak-
ing away with himself had flitted through his own mind
a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he get
real sympathy. He would see what he could do with
a certain brickmaker of his acquaintance.

" Are you here, Dan ? " he said, knocking at the
door of a cottage which stood alone, close to the tow-
ing-path of the canal, and close also to a forlorn comer
of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brickfield. It
was now just past six o'clock, and the men would be
rising, as in midwinter they commenced their work at
seven. The cottage was an unalluring, straight brick-
built tenement, seeming as though intended to be one
of a row which had never progressed beyond Number
One. A voice answered from the interior, inquiring
who was the visitor, to which Mr. Crawley replied by
giving his name. Then the key was turned in the
lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with
a candle in his hand. He had been engaged in light-
ing the fire, with a view to his own breakfast. " Where
is your wife, Dan ? " asked Mr. Crawley, The man
answered by pointing with a short poker, which he
held in his hand, to the bed, which was half screened
from the room by a ragged ctu'tain, which hung from
the ceiling half-way down to the floor. " And are the
Darvels here ? " asked Mr. Crawley. Then Morris,
again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that
the Darvels were still in their own allotted abode up-
stairs.

" You 're early out. Muster Crawley," said Morris,

l60 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

and then he went on with his fire. " Drat the sticks,
if they bean't as wut as the did *un hisself. Get up,
old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. They wun't
kindle for me, nohow." But the old woman, having
well noted the presence of Mr. Crawley, thought it
better to remain where she was.

Mr. Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire,
and began to arrange the sticks. " Dan, Dan," said a
voice from the bed, " sure you would n*t let his rever-
ence trouble himself with the fire."

" How be I to keep him from it if he chooses ? I
did n't ax him." Then Morris stood by and watched,
and after a while Mr. Crawley succeeded in his at-
tempt.

" How could it bum when you had not given the
small spark a current of air to help it ? " said Mr.
Crawley.

" In course not," said the woman, " but he be such
a stoopid."

The husband said no word in acknowledgment of
this compliment, nor did he thank Mr. Crawley for
what he had done, nor appear as though he intended
to take any notice of him. He was going on with his
work when Mr. Crawley again interrupted him.

" How did you get back from Silverbridge yester-
day, Dan? "

Footed it, — all the blessed way."
It *s only eight miles."

And I footed it there, and that 's sixteen. And I
paid one-and-sixpence for beer and grub ; — s' help me,
I did."

" Dan! " said the voice from the bed, rebuking him
for the impropriety of his language.

«
it
tt

MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. l6l

Well ; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv

me two bob ; — ^just two plain shillings, by "

"Dan!"

" And I 'd 've amed three-and-six here at brickmak-
ing, easy ; that 's what I would. How *s a poor man
to live that way ? They *11 not cotch me at Barchester
'Sizes at that price ; they may be sure o' that. Look
there, — that 's what I Ve got for my day." And he
put his hand into his breeches' pocket and fetched
out a sixpence. " How 's a man to fill his belly out
of that ? Damnation I "
"Dan!"

" Well, what did I say ? Hold your jaw, will you,
and not be halloaing at me that way ? I know what
I *m a-saying of, and what I *m a-doing of."

" I wish they 'd given you something more with all
my heart," said Crawley.

We knows that," said the woman from the bed.
We is sure of that, your reverence."

Sixpence!" said the man scornfully. " If they 'd
have guv' me nothing at all but the run of my teeth
at the public-house, I 'd 've taken it better. But six-
pence!"

Then there was a pause. "And what have they
given to me ? " said Mr. Crawley, when the man's ill-
humour about his sixpence had so far subsided as to
allow of his busying himself again about the premises.
Yes, indeed; — ^yes, indeed," said the woman.
Yes, yes, we feel that ; we do indeed, Mr. Crawley."
I tell you what, sir ; for another sixpence, I *d 've
sworn you 'd never guv' me the paper at all ; and so
I will now, if it bean't too late ; — sixpence or no six-
pence. What do I care ? d — them."

V UL. I, — 11

I62 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

"Dan!"

" And why should n*t I ? They hain't got brains
enough among them to winny the truth from the lies
— ^not among the lot of *em. I '11 swear afore the
judge that you did n't give it me at all, if that '11 do
any good."

" Man, do you think I would have you perjure
yourself, even if that would do me a service ? And
do you think that any man was ever served by a
lie ? "

" Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them
too much of the truth. Look at that!" And he
brought out the sixpence again from his breeches'
pocket. "And look at your reverence. Only that
they 've let you out for a while, they 've been nigh as
hard on you as though you were one of us."

" If they think that I stole it, they have been right,"
said Mr. Crawley.

" It 's been along of that chap Soames," said the
woman. " The lord would 've paid the money out of
his own pocket and never said not a word."

" If they think that I 've been a thief, they have
done right," repeated Mr. Crawley. " But how can
they think so? How can they think so? Have I
lived like a thief among them ? "

" For the matter o' that, if a man ain't paid for his
work by them as is his employers, he must pay hisself.
Them 's my notions. Look at that!" Whereupon
he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth in
the palm of his hand.

" You believe, then," said Mr. Crawley, speaking
very slowly, " that I did steal the money ? Speak out,
Dan ; I shall not be angry. As you go you are honest

MIL CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY. 1 63

men, and I want to know what such of you think
about it."

"He don't think nothing of the kind/' said the
woman, ahnost getting out of bed in her energy. '' If
he 'd athought the like o' that in his head, I 'd read
'un such a lesson he 'd never think again the longest
day he had to live."

" Speak out, Dan," said the clergyman, not attend-
ing to the woman. ''You can understand that no
good can come of a lie." Dan Morris scratched his
head. " Speak out, man, when I tell you," said Mr.
Crawley.

" Drat it all," said Dan, " where 's the use of so
much jaw about it ? "

*' Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the
babe as is n't bom,** said the woman.

" No ; I won't, — say nothing of the kind," said Dan.
Speak out the truth," said Crawley.
They do say, among 'em," said Dan, " that you
picked it up, and then got a woolgathering in yoiu:
head till you did n't rightly know where it come from."
Then he paused. " And after a bit you guv' it me to
get the money. Did n't you, now ? "

" I did."

'' And they do say if a poor man had done it, it 'd
been stealing, for sartain."

" And I 'm a poor man, — ^the poorest in all Hoggle-
stock ; and, therefore, of course, it is stealing. Of
course I am a thief. Yes ; of course I am a thief.
When did not the world believe the worst of the poor ? "
Having so spoken, Mr. Crawley rose from his chair
and hurried out of the cottage, waiting no further
reply from Dan Morris or his wife. And as he made

it
ft

1 64 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSST.

fais way slowly hcmie, not going there by the direct
road, but by a long circuit, he told himself that there
could be no sympathy for him anywhere. Even Dan
Morris, the brickmaker, thought that he was a thief.

" And am I a thief ? " he said to himself, standing in
the middle of the road, with his handa up to hia fore-
head.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE bishop's angel.

It was nearly nine before Mr. Crawley got back to
his house, and found his wife and daughter waiting
breakfast for him. "I should not wonder if Grace
were over here to-day," said Mrs. Crawley. " She 'd
better remain where she is" said he. After this the
meal passed almost without a word. When it was
over, Jane, at a sign from her mother, went up to her
father and asked him whether she should read with
him. *' Not now," he said, " not just now. I must
rest my brain before it will be fit for any work." Then
he got into the chair over the fire, and his wife began
to fear that he would remain there all the day.

But the morning was not far advanced, when there
came a visitor who disturbed him, and by disturbing
him did him real service. Just at ten there arrived
at the little gate before the house a man on a pony,
whom Jane espied, standing there by the pony's head
and looking about for some one to relieve him from
the charge of his steed. This was Mr. Thumble, who
had ridden over to Hogglestock on a poor spavined
brute belonging to the bishop's stable and which had
once been the bishop's cob. Now it was the vehicle
by which Mrs. Proudie's episcopal messages were sent
backwards and forwards through a twelve-mile ride

165

1 66 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

round Barchester ; and so many were the lady's re-
quirements that the poor animal by no means eat the
hay of idleness. Mr. Thumble had suggested to Mrs.
Proudie, after their interview with the bishop and the
giving up of the letter to the clerical messenger's
charge, that before hiring a gig from the Dragon of
Wantley, he should be glad to know, — looking as he
always did to " Mary Anne and the children," — ^whence
the price of the gig was to be returned to him. Mrs.
Proudie had frowned at him, — ^not with all the austerity
of frowning which she could use when really angered,
but simply with a frown which gave her some little time
for thought, and would enable her to continue the re-
buke if, after thinking, she should find that rebuke was
needed. But mature consideration showed her that
Mr. Thumble's caution was not without reason. Were
the bishop energetic, or even the bishop's managing
chaplain as energetic as he should be, Mr. Crawley
might, as Mrs. Proudie felt assured, be made in some
way to pay for a conveyance for Mr. Thumble. But
the energy was lacking, and the price of the gig, if the
gig were ordered, would certainly fall ultimately upon
the bishop's shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs.
Proudie had often grieved over the necessary expendi-
ture of episcopal surveillance, and had been heard to
declare her opinion that a liberal allowance for secret
service should be made in every diocese. What better
could the Ecclesiastical Commissioners do with all
those rich revenues which they had stolen from the
bishops! But there was no such liberal allowance at
present, and, therefore, Mrs. Proudie, after having
frowned at Mr. Thumble for some seconds, desired him
to take the grey cob. Now, Mr. Thumble had ridden

THE bishop's angel. 1 67

the grey cob before, and would much have preferred
a gig. But even the grey cob was better than a gig at
his own cost.

" Mamma, there 's a man at the gate wanting to
come in," said Jane. " I think he is a clergyman."

Mr. Crawley immediately raised his head, though
he did not at once leave his chair. Mrs. Crawley
went to the window, and recognised the reverend
visitor. " My dear, it is that Mr. Thumble who is so
much with the bishop."

" What does Mr. Thumble want with me ? "

" Nay, my dear ; he will tell you that himself." But
Mrs. Crawley, though she answered him with a voice
intended to be cheerful, greatly feared the coming of
this messenger from the palace. She perceived at
once that the bishop was about to interfere with her
husband in consequence of that which the magistrates
had done yesterday.

" Mamma, he does n*t know what to do with his
pony," said Jane.

"Tell him to tie it to the rail," said Mr. Crawley. " If
he has expected to find menials here, as he has them at
the palace, he will be wrong. If he wants to come in
here, let him tie the beast to the rail." So Jane went
out and sent a message to Mr. Thumble by the girl,
and Mr. Thumble did tie the pony to the rail, and fol-
lowed the girl into the house. Jane in the mean time
had retired out by the back door to the school, but
Mrs. Crawley kept her ground. She kept her ground
although she almost believed that her husband would
prefer to have the field to himself. As Mr. Thumble
did not at once enter the room, Mr. Crawley stalked
to the door, and stood with it open in his hand.

1 68 THE LAST CHRONICL£ OF BARSET.

Thou^ he knew Mr. Thumble's person he was not
acquainted with him, and therefore he simply bowed
to the visitor, — bowing more than once or twice with
a cold courtesy which did not put Mr. Thumble alto-
gether at his ease. " My name is Mr. Thumble," said
the visitor, — " The Reverend Caleb Thumble ; ** and
he held the bishop's letter in his hand. Mr. Crawley
seemed to take no notice of the letter, but motioned
Mr. Thumble with his hand into the room.

" I suppose you have come over from Barchester this
morning ? " said Mrs. Crawley.

"Yes, madam, — ^from the palace." Mr. Thumble,
though a humble man in positions in which he felt that
humility would become him, — a humble man to his
betters, as he himself would have expressed it,— had
still about him something of that pride which natiurally
belonged to those clergymen who were closely attached
to the palace at Barchester. Had he been sent on a
message to Plumstead, — could any such message from
Barchester palace have been possible,-^he would have
been properly humble in his demeanour to the arch-
deacon, or to Mrs. Grantly had he been admitted to
the august presence of that lady ; but he was aware that
humility would not become him on his present mis-
sion; he had been expressly ordered to be firm by
Mrs. Proudie, and firm he meant to be ; and therefore,
in communicating to Mrs. Crawley the fact that he
had come from the palace, he did load the tone of his
voice with something of dignity which Mr. Crawley
might perhaps be excused for regarding as arrogance.

" And what does the ' palace ' want with me ? " said
Mr. Crawley. Mrs. Crawley knew at once that there
was to be a battle. Nay, the battle had begun. Nor

THE bishop's angel. 1 69

was she altogether sorry; for though she could not
trust her husband to sit alone all day in his arm-chair
over the fire, she could trust him to carry on a dispu-
tation with any other clergyman on any subject what-
ever. " What does the palace want with me? " And
as Mr. Crawley asked the question he stood erect, and
looked Mr. Thumble full in the face. Mr. Thumble
called to mind the fact that Mr. Crawley was a very
poor man indeed, — so poor that he owed money all
round the country to butchers and bakers, — and the
other fact, that he, Mr. Thumble himself, did not owe
any money to any one, his wife luckily having a little
income of her own; and, strengthened by these re-
membrances, he endeavoured to bear Mr. Crawley's
attack with gallantry.

'* Of course, Mr. Crawley, you are aware that this
unfortunate affair at Silverbridge — — "

" I am not prepared, sir, to discuss the unfortunate
affair at Silverbridge with a stranger. If you are the
bearer of any message to me from the bishop of Bar-
chester, perhaps you will deliver it."

" I have brought a letter," said Mr. Thimible. Then
Mr. Crawley stretched out his hand without a word,
and taking the letter with him to the window, read it
very slowly. When he had made himself master of its
contents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the
envelope, and returned to the spot where Mr. Thum-
ble was standing. " I will answer the bishop's letter,"
he said ; " I will answer it of course, as it is fitting that
I should do. Shall I ask you to wait for my reply, or
shall I send it by course of post ? "

" I think, Mr. Crawley, as the bishop wishes me to
undertake the duty "

lyO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

"You will not undertake the duty, Mr. Thumble.
You need not trouble yourself, for I shall not surren-
der my pulpit to you."

" But the bishop "

" I care nothing for the bishop in this matter." So
much he spoke in anger, and then he corrected himself.
" I crave the bishop's pardon, and yours as his mes-
senger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong feelings
I have said aught which may savour of irreverence
towards his lordship's office. I respect his lordship's
high position as bishop of this diocese, and I bow to his
commands in all things lawful. But I must not bow to
him in things unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty
before God at his bidding, imless his bidding be given
in accordance with the canons of the Church and the
laws of the land. It will be my duty, on the coming
Sunday, to lead the prayers of my people in the church
of my parish, and to preach to them from my pulpit ;
and that duty, with God's assistance, I will perform.
Nor will I allow any clergyman to interfere with me
in the performance of those sacred offices, — no, not
though the bishop himself should be present with the
object of enforcing his illegal command." Mr. Craw-
ley spoke these words without hesitation, even with
eloquence, standing upright, and with something of a
noble anger gleaming over his poor wan face ; and I
think, that while speaking them, he was happier than
he had been for many a long day.

Mr. Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with
one foot a little in advance of the other, with one hand
folded over the other, with his head rather on one side,
and with his eyes fixed on the comer where the wall
and ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be

THE bishop's angel. 17 1

firm, and he was considering how he might best dis-
play firmness. He thought that he remembered some
story of two pairsons fighting for one pulpit, and he
thought also that he should not himself hke to incur
the scandal of such a proceeding in the diocese. As
to the law in the matter he knew nothing himself ; but
he presumed that a bishop would probably know the
law better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs. Proudie
was intemperate and imperious, he was aware. Had
the message come from her alone, he might have felt
that even for her sake he had better give way. But as
the despotic arrogance of the lady had been in this
case backed by the timid presence and hesitating
words of her lord, Mr. Thumble thought that he must
have the law on his side. " I think you will find, Mr.
Crawley," said he, "that the bishop's inhibition is
strictly legal." He had picked up the powerful word
from Mrs. Proudie, and flattered himself that it might
be of use to him in carrying his purpose.

" It is illegal," said Mr. Crawley, speaking somewhat
louder than before, "and will be absolutely futile.
As you pleaded to me that you yourself and your
own personal convenience were concerned in this mat-
ter, I have made known my intentions to you, which
otherwise I should have made known only to the
bishop. If you please, we will discuss the subject no
further."

" Am I to understand, Mr. Crawley, that you refuse
to obey the bishop ? "

".The bishop has written to me, sir ; and I will make
known my intention to the bishop by a written answer.
As you have been the bearer of the bishop's letter
to me, I am bound to ask you whether I shall be

173 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

indebted to you for carrying back my reply, or whether
I shall send it by course of post ? " Mr. Thumble con-
sidered for a moment, and then made up his mind that
he had better wait, and carry back the epistle. This
was Friday, and the letter could not be delivered by
post till the Saturday morning. Mrs. Proudie might
be angry with him if he should be the cause of loss
of time. He did not, however, at all like waiting, hav-
ing perceived that Mr. Crawley, though with language
cautiously worded, had spoken of him as a mere mes-
senger.

" I think,** he said, " that I may, perhaps, best further
the object which we must all have in view, that namely
of providing properly for the Sunday services of the
church of Hogglestock, by taking your reply personally
to the bishop."

" That provision is my care, and need trouble no one
else," said Mr. Crawley, in a loud voice. Then, be-
fore seating himself at his old desk, he stood awhile^
pondering, with his back turned to his visitor. " I have
to ask your pardon, sir,** said he, looking round for
a moment, " because, by reason of the extreme poverty
of this house, my wife is unable to offer to you that
hospitality which is especially due from one clergyman
to another.*'

Oh, don't mention it," said Mr. Thumble.
If you will allow me, sir, I would prefer that it
should be mentioned." Then he seated himself at his
desk, and commenced his letter.

Mr. Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed.
Had there been no third person in the room he could
have sat down in Mr. Crawley's arm-chair, and waited
patiently till the letter should be finished. But Mrs.

THC bishop's AKGSL. 1 73

Crawley was there, and of course he was bound to
speak to her. In what strain could he do so ? Even
he, little as he was given to indulge in sentiment, had
been touched by the man's appeal to his own poverty,
and he felt, moreover, that Mrs. Crawley must have
been deeply moved by her husband's position with ref-
erence to the bishop's order. It was quite out of the
question that he should speak of that, as Mr. Crawley
would, he was well aware, immediately turn upon him.
At last he thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice
intended to be pleasant.

" That was the schoolhouse I passed, probably, just
as I came here ? " Mrs. Crawley told him that it was
the schoolhouse. "Ah, yes, I thought so. Have you a
certified teacher here ? " Mrs. Crawley explained that
no government aid had ever reached Hogglestock.
Besides themselves, they had only a young woman
whom they themselves had instructed. " Ah, that is
a pity," said Mr. Thumble.

" I) — ^I am the certified teacher," said Mr. Crawley,
turning round upon him from his chair.

" Oh, ah, yes," said Mr. Thumble ; and after that
Mr. Thumble asked no more questions about the Hog-
glestock school Soon afterwards Mrs. Crawley left
the room, seeing the difiiculty under which Mr. Thum-
ble was labouring and feeling sure that her presence
would not now be necessary. Mr. Crawley's letter was
written quickly, though every now and then he would
sit for a moment with his pen poised in the air, search,
ing his memory for a word. But the words came
to him easily, and before an hour was over he had
handed his letter to Mr. Thumble. The letter was as
follows:

174 ^HE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

** The Parsonage, Hogglestock, Dec. i86 — .

" Right Reverend Lord, — 1 have received the letter
of yesterday's date which your lordship has done me
the honour of sending to me by the hands of the Rev-
erend Mr. Thumble, and I avail myself of that gentle-
man's kindness to return to you an answer by the same
means, moved thus to use his patience chiefly by the
consideration that in this way my reply to your lord-
ship's injunctions may be in your hands With less delay
than would attend the regular course of the mail-post.

" It is with deep regret that I feel myself constrained
to inform your lordship that I cannot obey the com-
mand which you have laid upon me with reference
to the services of my church in this parish. I cannot
permit Mr. Thumble, or any other delegate from your
lordship, to usurp my place in my pulpit. I would not
have you to think, if I can possibly dispel such thoughts
from your mind, that I disregard your high office, or
that I am deficient in that respectful obedience to the
bishop set over me which is due to the authority of the
Crown as the head of the church in these realms ; but
in this, as in all questions of obedience, he who is re-
quired to obey must examine the extent of the authority
exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lord-
ship might possibly call upon me, using your voice as
bishop of the diocese, to abandon altogether the free-
hold rights which are now mine in this perpetual curacy.
The judge of assize, before whom I shall soon stand
for my trial, might command me to retire to prison
without a verdict given by the jury. The magistrates
who committed me so lately as yesterday, upon whose
decision in that respect your lordship has taken action
against me so quickly, might have equally strained their

THE bishop's angel. 1 75

authority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is
subject bound to obey, fiuther than where the law
gives authority and exacts obedience. It is not in the
power of the Crown itself to inhibit me from the per-
formance of my ordinary duties in this parish by any
such missive as that sent to me by your lordship. If
your lordship think it right to stop my mouth as a
clergyman in your diocese, you must proceed to do so
in an ecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws,
and will succeed in your object, or fail, in accordance
with the evidences as to ministerial fitness or unfitness,
which may be produced respecting me before the
proper tribunal.

" I will allow that much attention is due from a
clerg3anan to pastoral advice given to him by his
bishop. On that head I must first express to your
lordship my full understanding that your letter has not
been intended to convey advice, but an order; — an
inhibition, as your messenger, the Reverend Mr. Thiun-
ble, has expressed it. There might be a case certainly
in which I should submit myself to counsel, though I
should resist command. No counsel, however, has
been given, — except indeed that I should receive your
messenger in a proper spirit, which I hope I have done.
No other advice has been given me, and therefore there
is now no such case as that I have imagined. But in
this matter, my lord, I could not have accepted advice
from Hying man, no, not though the hands of the
apostles themselves had made him bishop who tendered
it to me, and had set him over me for my guidance.
I am in a terrible strait. Trouble, and sorrow, and
danger are upon me and mine. It may well be, as
your lordship sa3rs, that the bitter waters of the present

176 THE LAST CHRONICLE OP BARSET.

hour may pass over my head and destroy me. I thank
your lordship for telling me whither I am to look for
assistance. Truly I know not whether there is any to
be found for me on earth. But the deeper my troubles,
the greater my sorrow, the more pressing my danger,
the stronger is my need that I should carry myself in
these days with that outward respect of self which will
teach tho^e around me to know that, let who will con-
demn me, I have not condemned m5rself. Were I to
abandon my pulpit, unle.ss forced to do so by legal
means, I should in doing so be putting a plea of guilty
against myself upon the record. This, my lord, I will
not do.

" I have the honour to he, my lord,

'' Your lordship's most obedient servant,

'*JosiAH Crawley."

When he had finished writing his letter he read it
over slowly, and then handed it to Mr. Thumble. The
act of writing, and the current of the thoughts through
his brain, and the feeling that in every word written he
was getting the better of the bishop, — ^all this joined to
a certain manly delight in warfare against authority,
lighted up the man's face and gave to his eyes an ex-
pression which had been long wanting to them. His
wife at that moment came into the room, and he looked
at her with an air of triumph as he handed the letter
to Mr. Thumble. " If you will give that to his lordship
with an assurance of my duty to his lordship in all
things proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your
pardon for the great delay to which you have been
subjected."

" As to the delay, that is nothing," said Mr. Thumble.

THE bishop's angel. 1 77

" It has been much ; but you as a clergyman will
feel that it has been incumbent on me to speak my mind
fuUy."

" Oh, yes ; of course." Mr. Crawley was standing
up, as also was Mrs. Crawley. It was evident to Mr.
Thumble that they both expected that he should go.
But he had been specially enjoined to be firm, and he
doubted whether hitherto he had been firm enough.
As far as this morning's work had as yet gone, it
seemed to him that Mr. Crawley had had the play all
to himself, and that he, Mr. Thumble, had not had his
innings. He, from the palace, had been, as it were,
cowed by this man who had been forced to plead his
own poverty. It was certainly incumbent upon him,
before he went, to speak up, not only for the bishop,
but for himself also. " Mr. Crawley," he said, " hitherto
I have listened to you patiently."

" Nay," said Mr. Crawley, smiling, " you have indeed
been patient, and I thank you ; but my words have
been written, not spoken."

" You have told me that you intend to disobey the
bishop's inhibition."

I have told the bishop so certainly."
May I ask you now to listen to me for a few min-
utes? "

Mr. Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes
the unwonted triumph which had lighted them up,
paused a moment, and then answered him. " Rever-
end sir, you must excuse me if I say no, — not on this
subject."

" You will not let me speak ? "

" No ; not on this matter, which is very private to

me. What should you think if I went-into yoiur house
VOL. I. — 12

€4

17S THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

and inquired of you as to those things which were par-
ticularly near to you ? "

*' But the bishop sent me."

'' Though ten bishops had sent you^ — a council of
archbishops if you wiH! " Mr. Thumble started back^
appalled at the energy of the words used to him.
" Shall a man have nothing of his own ; — ^no sorrow in
his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast
so private and special to him, but that, if he happen
to be a clergyman, the l»shop may touch it with his
thumb ? "

" I am not the bishop's thumb," said Mr. Thumble,
drawing himself up.

" I intended not to hint anything personally objec-
tionable to yourself. I will regard you as one of the
angels of the church." Mr. Thumble^ when he heard
this, began to be sure that Mr. Crawley was mad ; he
knew of no angels that could ride about the Barsetshire
lanes on grey ponies. " And as such I will respect you ;
but I cannot discuss with you the matter of the bishop's
message."

" Oh, very weU. I will tell his lordship."

" I will pray you to do so."

" And his k»:dship, should he so decide^ will arm me
with such power on my next coming as will enable me
to carry out his lordship's wishes*"

" His lordship will abide by the law, — as will you
also." In speaking these last words he stood with the
door in his hand, and Mr. Thumble, not knowing how
to increase or even to maintain his firmness, thought
it best to pass out, and mount his grey pony and ride
away.

" The poor man thought, that you were laughing at

THE bishop's angel. 179

him when you called him an angel of the church/' said
Mrs. Crawley, coming up to him and smiling on him.
" Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he
would have taken it worse! Poor fool! When they
have rid themselves of me they may put him here, in
my church ; but not yet, — ^not yet. Where is Jane ?
Tell her that I am ready to commence the Seven
against Thebes with her." Then Jane was immediately
sent for out of the school, and the Seven against
Thebes was commenced with great energy. Often
during the next hour and a half Mis. Crawley from
the kitchen would hear him reading out, or rather say-
ing by rote, with sonorous, rolling voice, great passages
from, some chorus^ and she was very thankful to the
bishop who had sent ovtar to them a message and a
messenger which had been so salutary in their effect
upon her husband. " In truth an angel of the church,"
she said to herself as she chopped up the onions for
the mutton broth; and ever afterwards. she regarded
Mr. Thumble as an '^ angel.**

CHAPTER XIV.

MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND.

Grace Crawley passed through Silverbridge on her
way to AUington on the Monday, and on the Tuesday
morning Major Grantly received a very short note from
Miss Prettyman, telling him that she had done so.

" Dear Sir, — I think you will be glad to learn that our
friend Miss Crawley went from us yesterday on a visit
to her friend, Miss Dale, at AUington.

" Yoiurs truly, .

"Annabella Prettyman."

The note said no more than that. Major Grantly was
glad to get it, obtaining from it that satisfaction which a
man always feels when he is presumed to be concerned in
the affairs of a lady with whom he is in love. And he re-
garded Miss Prettyman with favourable eyes, — as a dis-
creet and friendly woman. Nevertheless, he was not
altogether happy. The very fact that Miss Prettyman
should write to him on such a subject made him feel that
he was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enough of
himself to be sure that he could not give her up with-
out making himself miserable. And yet, as regarded
her father, things were going from bad to worse.
Everybody now said that the evidence was so strong
against Mr. Crawley as to leave hardly a doubt of his

i8o

MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. l8l

guilt. Even the ladies in Silverbridge were beginning
to give up his cause, acknowledging that the money
could not have come rightfully into his hands, and ex-
cusing him on the plea of partial insanity. '' He has
picked it up and put it by for months, and then thought
that it was his own." The ladies of Silverbridge could
find nothing better to say for him than that ; and when
young Mr. Walker remarked that such little mistakes
were the customary causes of men being taken to prison,
the ladies of Silverbridge did not know how to answer
him. It had come to be their opinion that Mr. Crawley
was affected widi a partial lunacy, which ought to be
forgiven in one to whom the world had been so cruel ;
and when young Mr. Walker endeavoured to explain
to them that a man must be sane altogether or mad
altogether, and that Mr. Crawley must, if sane, be
locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked up as a mad-
man, they sighed, and were convinced that until the
world should have been improved by a new infusion
of romance and a stronger feeling of poetic justice,
Mr. John Walker was right.

And the result of this general opinion made its way
out to Major Grantly, and made its way, also, to the
archdeacon at Plumstead. As to the major, in giving
him his due, it must be explained that the more certain
he became of the father's guilt, the more certain also
he became of the daughter's merits. It was very hard,
llie whole thing was cruelly hard. It was cruelly hard
upon him that he should be brought into this trouble
and be forced to take upon himself the armour of a
knight-errant for the redress of the wrong on the part
of the young lady. But when alone in his house, or
with his child, he declared to himself that he would do

l8» THS LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

SO. It might well be that he could not live in Barset-
shire after he had married Mr. Crawley's daughter.
He had inherited from his father enough of that long-
ing for ascendancy among those around him to make
him feel that in such circumstances he would be
wretched. But he would be made more wretched by
the self-knowledge that he had behaved badly to the
girl he loved ; and the world beyond Barsetshire was
open to him. He would take her with him to Canada,
to New Z^and, or to some other far-away country,
and there begin his life again. Should his father choose
to punish him for so doing by disinheriting him, they
would be poor enough ; but in his present frame of
mind, the major was able to regard such poverty as
honourable and not altogether disagreeable.

He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes,
with Dr. Thome and a party who were sta3ring in the
house there, and had been talking about Mr. Crawley,
first with one man and then with another. Lord Luf-
ton had been there, and young Gresham from Gresh-
amsbury, and Mr. Robarts the clergyman, and news
had come among them of the attempt made by the
bishop to stop Mr. Crawley from preaching. Mr.
Robarts had been of opinion that Mr. Crawley should
have given way; and Lord Lufton, who shared his
mother's intense dislike of everything that came from
the palace, had sworn that he was right to resist The
sympathy of die whole party had been with Mr.
Crawley ; — ^but they had all agreed that he had stolen
the money.

" I fear he '11 have to give way to the bishop at
last," Lord Lufton had said.

'* And what on earth will become of his children ? '^

MAJOR GRANTLV COKSULTS A J-RIEKD. 183

said the doctor. "Think erf the fate of that pretty
girl ; for she is a very pretty girL It will be ruin to
her. No man will allow himself to fall in love with
her when her father shall have been found guilty of
stealing a cheque for twenty poimds."

" We must do something for the whole family,'* said
die lord. " I say, Thome, you have n't half the game
here that there used to be in poor old Sowerby's time.*'

" Have n't I ? " said the doctor. " You see Sowerby
had been at it all his days, and never did anything else.
I only began late in life."

The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldi-
cotes, but when he heard what was said about Grace,
his heart became sad^ and he made some excuse as
to hb chfld, and returned home. Dr, Thome had de-
clared that no man could allow himself to fall in love
vMi her. But what if a man had fallen in love with
her beforehand ? What if a man had not only fallen
in love, but spoken of his love P Had he been alone
with the doctor, he would, I think, have told him the
whole of his trouble ; for in all the county there was
no man whom he would sooner have trusted with his
secret TTiis Dr. Thome was known far and wide for
his soft heart, his open hand, and his welUsustained
indiffierence to die world's opinions on most of those
social matters with which the world meddles; and
therefore the words which he had spoken had more
weight with Major Grantly than they would have had
from other lips. As he drove home he almost made
up his mind that he would consult Dr. Thome upon
the matter. There were many younger men with
whom he was very intimate, — Frank Gresham, for
instance, and Lord Lufton himself ; but this was an

184 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

affair which he hardly knew how to discuss with a
young man. To Dr. Thome he thought that he could
bring himself to tell the whole story.

In the evening there came to him a messenger from
Plumstead, with a letter from his father and some pres-
ent for the child. He knew at once that the present
had been thus sent as an excuse for the letter. His
father might have written by the post, of course ; but
that would have given to his letter a certain air and
tone which he had not wished it to bear. After some
message from the major's mother, and some allusion
to Edith, the archdeacon struck off upon the matter
that was near his heart.

" I fear it is all up with that unfortimate man at
Hogglestock," he said. " From what I hear of the
evidence which came out before the magistrates, there
can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you
heard that the bishop sent over on the following day
to stop him from preaching ? He did so, and sent
again on the Sunday. But Crawley would not give
way, and so far I respect the man ; for as a matter of
course, whatever the bishop did, or attempted to do,
he would do with an extreme of bad taste, probably
with gross ignorance as to his own duty and as to the
duty of the man under him. I am told that on the
first day Crawley turned out of l&s house the messen-
ger sent to him, — some stray clergyman whom Mrs.
Proudie keeps about the house ; and that on the Sun-
day the stairs to the reading-desk and pulpit were
occupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the
parson from Barchester did not venture to attempt to
make his way, although he was fortified by the pres-
ence of one of the cathedral vergers and by one of the

MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 1 85

palace footmen. I can hardly believe about the verger
and the footman. As for the rest, I have no doubt
it is all true. I pity Crawley from my heart. Poor,
unfortunate man! The general opinion seems to be
that he is not in truth responsible for what he has
done. As for his victory over the bishop, nothing on
earth could be better.

" Your mother particularly wishes you to come over
to us before the end of the week, and to bring Edith.
Your grandfather will be here, and he is becoming so
infirm that he will never come to us for another Christ-
mas. Of course you will stay over the new year."

Though the letter was full of Mr. Crawley and his
affairs, there was not a word in it about Grace. This,
however, was quite natural. Major Grantly perfectly
well understood his father's anxiety to carry his point
without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject.
" My father is very clever," he said to himself, " very
clever. But he is n*t so clever but one can see how
clever he is."

On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending
to call on Miss Prettyman. He had not quite made
up his mind what he would say to Miss Prettyman ;
nor was he called upon to do so, as he never got as
far as that lady's house. While walking up the High
Street he saw Mrs. Thome in her carriage, and, as a
matter of course, he stopped to speak to her. He
knew Mrs. Thome quite as intimately as he did her
husband, and liked her quite as well. "Major
Grantly," she said, speaking out loud to him, half
across the street ; " I was very angry with you yester-
day. Why did you not come up to dinner ? We had
a room ready for you and everything."

1 86 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF EARSET.

** I was not quite well, Mrs. ThOTne."

''Fiddlestick! I>oii't tell me of not being well
There was Emily breaking her heart about jovl.**

" I 'm sure Miss Dunstable "

"To tell you the truA, I thmk she '11 get over it.
It won't be mortal with her. But do tell me, Major
Grantly, what are we to think about this poor Mr. Craw-
ley ? It was so good of you to be one of his bailmen."

" He would have found twenty in Silverbridge, if he
had wanted them."

*' And do you hear that he has defied the bishop ?
I do so like him for that. Not but what poor Mrs.
Proudie is the dearest friend I have in the world, and
I 'm always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton on
her behalf. But one likes to see one's friends worsted
sometimes, you know."

" I don't quite understand what did happen at Hog-
glestock on Sunday," said the major.

" Some say he had the bishop's chaplain put under
the pump. I don't believe that ; but there is no doubt
that when the poor fellow tried to get into the pulpit,
they took him and carried him neck and heels out of
the church. But tell me. Major Grantly, what is to
become of the family ? "

" Heaven knows! "

*^ Is it not sad ? And diat eldest giil is so nice !
They tell me that she is perfect,— not only in beauty,
but in manners and accomplishments. Everybody
says that she talks Greek just as well as she does Eng-
lish, and that she understands philosophy from the top
to the bottom."

" At any rate, she is so good and so lovely that one
cannot but pity her now," said the major..

ICAJOR GEAMTLY CONSULTS A FRIXBO). tij

" You know her, then, Major Grandy ? By-the-bye,
of comse you do, as you were staying with her at
Fimmley/'

Yes, I know her."

What is to become of her ? I 'm going your way.
You might as well get into the caniage, and I 'U drive
you home. If he is sent to prison, — and they say he
must be sent to prison, — ^what is to become of them ? "
Then Major Grandy did get into the caniage, and,
before he got out again, he had told Mis. Th<»ne the
whole story of his love.

She listened to him with the closest attention ; only
interrupting him now and then with litde words,
intended to signify her approval He, as he told his
tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyes
fixed xxpoD. her muff. " And now," he said, g^ncing
up at her almost for the first time as he finished his
speech, " and now, Mrs. Thome, what am I to do ? "

" Mairy her, of course," said she, imising her hand
aloft and bringing it down heavily upon his knee as
she gave her decisive reply.

" H — sh — ^h," he exclaimed, looking back in dismay
towards the servants.

" Oh, they never hear anjrthing up there. They *re
thinking about the last pot of porter diey had, or the
next diey 're to get Deary me, I am so gladl Of
course you 'U marry her."

" You forget my fadier."

" No, I don't What has a father to do with it ?
You 're old enough to please yourself without asking
any father. Besides, Lord bless me, the archdeacon
is n't the man to bear malice. He '11 storm and
threaten and stop the supplies for a month or so.

4t
it

X88 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Then he *11 double them, and take your wife to his
bosom, and kiss her and bless her, and all that kind
of thing. We all know what parental wrath means
in such cases as that."

But my sister "

As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I
don't care two straws about your sister. You must
excuse me. Major Grantly, but Lady Hartletop is
really too big for my powers of vision."

" And Edith,-— of course, Mrs. Thome, I can't be
blind to the fact that in many ways such a marriage
would be injurious to her. No man wishes to be con-
nected with a convicted thief."

" No, Major Grantly ; but a man does wish to marry
the girl that he loves. At least, I suppose so. And
what man ever was able to give a more touching proof
of his affection than you can do now ? If I were you,
I 'd be at AUington before twelve o'clock to-morrow,
— I would indeed. What does it matter about the
trumpery cheque ? Everybody knows it was a mistake,
if he did take it. And surely you would not punish
her for that."

" No, — ^no ; but I don't suppose she 'd think it a
punishment"

"You go and ask her, then. And I '11 tell you
what. If she has n't a house of her own to be married
from, she shall be married from Chaldicotes. We '11
have such a breakfast! And I '11 make as much of
her as if she were the daughter of my old friend the
bishop himself ; — I will indeed."

This was Mrs. Thome's advice. Before it was com-
pleted, Major Grantly had been carried half-way to
Chaldicotes. When he left his impetuous friend he

MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND. 189

was too prudent to make any promise, but he declared
that what she had said should have much weight with
him.

You won't mention it to anybody ? ** said the major.

Certainly not. without your leave," said Mrs.
Thome. " Don't you know that I 'm the soul of
honour ? "

4t
it

CHAPTER XV.

UP IN LONDON.

Some kind and attentive reader may perhaps re-
member that Miss Grace Crawley, in a letter written
by her to her friend Miss Lily Dale, said a word or
two of a certain John. " If it can only be as John
wishes it!'' And the same reader, if there be one so
kind and attentive, may also remember that Miss Lily
Dale had declared, in reply, that "about that other
subject she would rather say nothing," — and then she
had added, " When one thinks of going beyond friend-
ship, — ^if one tries to do so, — there are so many bar-
riers!" From which words the kind and attentive
reader, if such reader be in such matters intelligent as
well as kind and attentive, may have learned a great
deal with reference to Miss Lily Dale.

We will now pay a visit to die John in question, —
a certain Mr. John Eames, living in London, a bach-
elor, as the intelligent reader will certainly have
discovered, and cousin to Miss Grace Crawley. Mr.
John Eames at the time of our story was a young man,
some seven or eight and twenty years of age, living in
London, where he was supposed by his friends in the
country to have made his mark, and to be something
a little out of the common way. But I do not know
that he was very much out of the common way, except

in the fact that he had had some few thousand pounds

I go

UP I2f LOUDON. 191

ief t him by an old nobleman, who had been in no way
related to him ; but who had regarded him with great
aSectkm, and who had died some two years since.
Before this, John Eames had not been a very poor
man, as he filled the comfortable official position of
private secretary to the Chief Commissioiner ol the
Income*tax Board, and drew a salary of three hundred
and fifty pounds a year from the resources of hm
country ; but when, in addition to this source of official
wealth, he became known as the undoubted possessor
of a hundred and twenty-eight shares in cnne of the
most prosperous joint-stock banks in the metrc^>olis,
which property had been left to him free of legacy
duty by the lamented nobleman abored named, then
Mn John £ames rose very high indeed a» a young
man in the estimation of those who knew him, and wa&
supposed to be something a good deal out of the com*
mon way. His mother, who Mved in the country, was
obedient to his slightest word, never venturing to im-
pose upon him any sign of parental authority ; and to
his sister, Mary Eames, who lived with hor mother, he
was almost a god upon earth. To sisters who have
nothing of their own, — ^not even some special god for
their own individual worship, — ^generous, affectimiate,
unmarried brothers, with sufficient incomes, are gods
upon earth.

And even up in London Mr. John Eames was some-
body. He was so especially at his office ; although,
indeed, it was remembered by many a man how raw a
lad he had been when he first came there, not so very
many years ago ; and how they had laughed at him
and played him tricks ; and how he had customarily
been known to be without a shilling for the last week

192 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

before pay-day, during which period he would borrow
sixpence here and a shilling there with great energy,
from men who now felt themselves to be honoured
when he smiled upon them. Little stories of his former
days would often be told of him behind his back ; but
they were not told with ill-nature, because he was very
constant in referring to the same matters himself. And
it was acknowledged by every one at the office, that
neither the friendship of the nobleman, nor the fact of
the private secretaryship, nor the acquisition of his
Wealth, had made him proud to his old companions or
forgetful of old friendships. To the young men, lads
who had lately been appointed, he was perhaps a little
cold ; but then it was only reasonable to conceive that
such a one as Mr. John Eames was now could not be
expected to make an intimate acquaintance with every
new clerk that might be brought into the office. Since
competitive examinations had come into vogue there
was no knowing who might be introduced ; and it was
tinderstood generally through the establishment, — and
I may almost say by the civil service at large, so wide
was his fame, — that Mr^ Eames was very averse to the
whole theory of competition. The "Devil take the
hindmost " scheme, he called it ; and would then go on
to explain that hindmost candidates were often the best
gentlemen, and that, in this way, the Devil got the pick
of the flock. And he was respected the more for this
opinion, because it was known that on this subject he
had fought some hard battles with the chief commis-
sioner. The chief commissioner was a great believer
ki competition, wrote papers about it, which he read
aloud to varibus bodies of the civil service, — ^not at all
to their delight, — which he got to be printed here and

UP IN LONDON. X93

there, and which he sent by post all over the kingdom.
More than once this chief commissioner had told his
private secretary that they must part company miless
the private secretary could see fit to alter his view, or
could, at least, keep his views to himself. But the
private secretary would do neither ; and, nevertheless,
there he was, still private secretary. '* It 's because
Johnny has got money," said one of the young clerks,
who was discussing this singular state of things with
his brethren at the office. "When a chap has got
money, he may do what he likes. Johnny has got lots
of money, you know." The young clerk in question
was by no means on intimate terms with Mr. Eames,
but there had grown up in the office a way of calling
him Johnny behind his back, which had probably
come down firom the early days of his scrapes, and his
poverty.

Now the entire life of Mr. John Eames was pervaded
by a great secret; and although he never, in those
days, alluded to the subject in conversation with any
man belonging to the office, yet the secret was known
to them all. It had been historical for the last four
or five years, and was now regarded as a thing of
course. Mr. John Eames was in love, and his love
was not happy. He was in love, and had long been
in love, and the lady of his love was not kind to him.
The little history had grown to be very touching and
pathetic, having received, no doubt, some embellish-
ments from the imaginations of the gentlemen of the
Income-tax Office. It was said of him that he had
been in love from his early boyhood, that at sixteen he
had been engaged, under the sanction of the nobleman
now deceased and of the young lady's parents, that

VOL. I. — 13

194 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

contracts of betrothals had been drawn up, and things
done very unusual in private families in these days, and
that then there had come a stranger into the neigh-
bourhood just as the young lady was beginning to
reflect whether she had a heart of her own or not, and
that she had thrown her parents, and the noble lord,
and the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to the

winds, and had . Here the story took different

directions as told by different men. Some said that
the lady had gone off with the stranger, and that there
had been a clandestine marriage, which afterwards
turned out to be no marriage at all ; others, that the
stranger suddenly took himself off, and was no more
seen by the young lady ; others, that he owned at last
to having another wife, — and so on. The stranger
was very well known to be one Mr. Crosbie, belonging
to another public office ; and there were circumstances
in his life, only half known, which gave rise to these
various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one
point as to which no clerk in the Income-tax Oflice
had a doubt, one fact which had conduced much to
the high position which Mr. John Eames now held in
the estimation of his brother clerks, — he had given this
Mr. Crosbie such a thrashing that no man had ever
received such treatment before and had lived through
it. Wonderful stories were told about that thrashing,
so that it was believed, even by the least enthusiastic
in such matters, that the poor victim had only dragged
on a crippled existence since the encounter. "For
nine weeks he never said a word nor eat a mouthful,**
said one young clerk to a younger clerk who was just
entering the office; "and even now he can't speak
above a whisper, and has to take all his food in pap."

UP IN LONDON. 195

It will be seen, therefore, that Mr. John Eames had
about him much of the heroic.

That he was still in love, and in love with the same
lady, was known to every one in the office. When
it was declared of him that in the way of amatory
expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth
to another woman, there were those in the office who
knew that this was an exaggeration. Mr. Cradell, for
instance, who in his early years had been very intimate
with John Eames, and who still kept up the old
friendship, — although, being a domestic man, with a
wife and six young children, and living on a small in-
come, he did not go out much among his friends, —
cduld have told a very different story ; for Mrs. Cradell
herself had, in days before Cradell had made good his
claim upon her, been not imadmired by CradelFs fel-
low-clerk. But the constancy of Mr. Eames's present
love was doubted by none who knew him. It was
not that he went about with his stockings ungartered,
or any of the old acknowledged signs of unrequited
affection. In his manner he was rather jovial than
otherwise, and seemed to live a happy, somewhat lux-
urious life, well contented with himself and the world
around him. But still he had this passion within his
bosom, and I am inclined to think that he was a little
proud of his own constancy.

It might be presumed that when Miss Dale wrote
to her friend Grace Crawley about going beyond
friendship, pleading that there were so many "bar-
riers," she had probably seen her way over most of
them. But this was not so; nor did John Eames
himself at all believe that the barriers were in a way
to be overcome. I will not say that he had given the

«9^ THE LAST CHRbNICLE OF BARSET.

whole thing up as a bad job, because it was the law
of his life that the thing never should be abandoned as
long as hope was possible. Unless Afiss Dale should
become the wife of somebody else, he would always
regard himself as affianced to her. He had so de«
clared to Miss Dale herself and to Miss Dale's mother
and to all the Dale people who had ever been inter-
ested in the matter. And there was an old lady living
in Miss Dade's neighbourhood, the sister of the lord
who had left Johnny Eames the bank shares, who al-
ways fought his batdes for him, and kept a dose look-
out, fuUy resolved that John £ames should be rewaided
at last. This old lady was connected with the Dales
by family ties, and therefore had means of close ob-
servation. She was in constant correspondence with
John Eames, and never failed to acquaint him when
any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving way.
The nature of some of the barriers may possibly be
made intelligible to my readers by the following letter
from Lady Julia De Guest to her young friend :

" Guestwidc Cottage, I>ecember i86 — .
" My dear John, — I am much obliged to you for
going to Jones's. I send stamps for two shillings and
fotupence, which is what I owe you. It used only
to be two shillings and twopence, but they say
everything has got to be dearer now, and I suppose
pills as well as other things. Only think of Pritchard
coming to me, and sapng she wanted her wages raised,
after living with me for twenty years! I was very
angry, and scolded her roundly ; but as she acknowl-
edged she had been wrong, and cried and begged my
pardon, I did give her two guineas a year more.

UP IN LONDON. 197

" I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday^ and
upon my word I think she grows prettier every year.
She had a young friend with her, — a Miss Crawley, —
who, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you speak
of. What is this sad story about her father, the
clergyman ? Mind you tell me all about it.

"It is quite true what I told you about the De
Courcys. Old Lady De Courcy is in London, and
Mr. Crosbie is going to law with her about his wife's
money. He has been at it in one way or the other
ever since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she
had lived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure
that our Lily will never willingly see him again, yet the
tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking
of things that were fading from her mind. 1 rated her
soundly, not mentioning your name, however ; but she
only kissed me, and told me in her quiet drolling way
that I did n't mean a word of what I said.

" You can come here whenever you please after the
tenth of January. But if you come early in January
you must go to your mother first, and come to me for
the last week of your holiday. Go to Blackie's in
Regent Street, and bring me down all the colours in.
wool that I ordered. I said you would calL And tell
them at DoUand's the last spectacles don't suit at all,
and I won't keep them« They had better send me
down, by you, one or two more pairs to try. And you
had better see Smithers and Smith,, in Lincoln's Inn
Fields, No. 57 — ^but you have been there before, — and
beg them to let nfte know how my poor dear brother's
matters are to be settled at last. As far as I can see
I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have
got to spend. As to my cousins at the manor, I never

198 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

see them ; and as to talking to them about business, I
should not dream of it. She has n*t come to me since
she first called, and she may be quite sure I shan't go
to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall Like each
other apart quite as much as we should together. So
let me know when you 're coming, and pray don't
forget to call at Blackie's ; nor yet at DoUand's, which
is much more important than the wool because of my
eyes getting so weak. But what I want you specially
to remember is about Smithers and Smith. How is a
woman to live if she does n't know how much she
has got to spend ?

Believe me to be, my dear John,

Your most sincere friend,

Julia De Guest."

" X>CliCVC

XUUl I

Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young
friend to his office, and there he received the one now
given to the reader. When he had read it he made a
memorandum as to the commissions, and then threw
himself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings
communicated to him. All the facts stated he had
known before ; that Lady De Courcy was in London,
and that her son-in-law, Mr. Crosbie, whose wife, —
Lady Alexandrina, — ^had died some twelve months
since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her re-
specting money which he supposed to be due to him.
But there was that in Lady Julia's letter which was
wormwood to him. Lily Dale was again thinking of
this man, whom she had loved in old days, and who
had treated her with monstrous perfidy ! It was all
very well for Lady Julia to be sure that Lily Dale
would never desire to see Mr. Crosbie again ; but John

UP IN LONDON. 199

Eames was by no means equally certain that it would
be so. " The tidings of her death disturbed her! " said
Johnny, repeating to himself certain words out of the
old lady's letter. " I know they disturbed me. I wish
she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to
show himself within ten miles of AUington, I '11 see if I
cannot do better than I did the last time I met him! "
Then there came a knock at the door, and the private
secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by
the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder
enter in an angry voice. " Oh, it 's you, Cradell, is it ?
What can I do for you ? " Mr. Cradell, who now en-
tered, and who, as before said, was an old ally of John
Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the depart-
ment than his friend. In age he looked to be much
older, and there remained with him none of that
appearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for
many years to men who are fortunate in their worldly
affairs. Indeed, it may be said that Mr. Cradell was
almost shabby in his outward appearance, and his brow
seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes were dull
and heavy.

" I thought I *d just come in and ask you how you
are," said Cradell.

" I 'm pretty well, thank you ; and how are you ? "
" Oh, I 'm pretty well, — ^in health, that is. You see
one has so many things to think of when one has a
large family. Upon my word, Johnny, I think you Ve
been lucky to ke^ out of it."

" I have kept out of it, .at any rate ; have n't I ? "
" Of course ; living with you as much as I used to
do, I know the whole story of what has kept you
single."

20O THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

*' Don't mind about that, Cradell. What is ft you
want ? ''

" I must n't let you suppose, Johnny, that I 'm
grumbling about my lot. Nobody knows better than
you what a trump I got in my wife.**

" Of course you did ; — an excellent woman."

" And if I cut you out a little there, I 'm sure jtm
never felt malice against me for that.**
Never for a moment, old fellow."
We have all our own luck, you know."

" Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck
has been to be a bachelor."

"You may say a family," said Cradell. " I 'm sure
that Amelia does the best she can ; but we are des-
perately pushed sometimes, — desperately pushed. I
never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now.'*

*' So you said the last time."

" Did I ? I don't remember it. I did n't think I
was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can Jet me have
one more fiver now I have made arrangements with
Amelia how I 'm to pay you off by thirty shilKngs a
month, — as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask
her else."

" I '11 be shot if I do."

" Don't say that, Johnny."

" It *s no good your Johnnying me, fOT I won't be
Johnnyed out of another shilling. It comes too often,
and there *s no reason why I should do it. And
what 's more, I can't afford it. I *ve people of my
own to help."

" But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you
are. And I *m sure no one rejoiced as I did when
the money was left to you. If it had ben myself I

UP IN LONDON. 20 1

could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my
solemn word and honour if you '11 let me have it this
time, it shall be the last.''

" Upon my word and honour then, I \^on't. There
must be an end to everything."

Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed,
have admitted the truth of this last assertion, he did
not seem to think that the end had as yet eome to his
friend's benevolence. It certainly had not come to
his own importunity. " Don't say that, Johnny ; pray
don't."

But I do say it."

When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I
did n't like to go to you again, because of course a
man has feelings, she told me to mention her name.
' I 'm sure he 'd do it for my sake,' she said."
I don't believe she said anything of the kind."
Upon my word she did. You ask her."
And if she did, she ought n't to have said it."
*'Oh, Johnny, don't speak in that way of her.
She 's my wife, and you know what your own feelings
were once. But look here, — we arc in that state at
home at this moment, that I must get money some-
where before I go home. I must, indeed. If you 'U
let me have three pounds this once, I '11 never ask yon
again. I '11 give you a written promise if you like, and
I '11 pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings
a time out of the two next months* salary. I will,
indeed." And then Mr. Cradell began to cry. But
when Johnny at last took out his cheque-book and
wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr. Cradell's eyes
glistened with joy. " Upon my word I am so much
obliged to you! You are the best fellow that ever

202 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

lived. And Amelia will say the same when she hears
of it.

" I don*t believe she '11 say anything of the kind,
Cradell. If I remember anything of her, she has a
stouter heart than that." Cradell admitted that his
wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then made
his way back to his own part of the office.

This little interruption to the current of Mr. Eames's
thoughts was, I think, for the good of the service, as,
immediately on his friend's departure, he went to his
work; whereas, had not he been thus called away
from his reflections about Miss Dale, he would have
sat thinking about her affairs probably for the rest of
the morning. As it was, he really did write a dozen
notes in answer to as many private letters addressed to
his chief. Sir Raffle. Buffle, in all of which he made ex-
cellently-worded false excuses for the non-performance
of various requests made to Sir Raffle by the writers.
" He 's about the best hand at it that I know," said
Sir Raffle, one day, to the secretary ; ** otherwise you
may be sure I should n't keep him there." " I will
allow that he is clever," said the secretary. " It is n't
cleverness, so much as tact. It 's what I call tact. I
had n't been long in the service before I mastered it
myself; and now that I 've been at the trouble to
teach him I don't want to have the trouble to teach
another. But upon my word he must mind his /'s
and i^'s ; upon my word he must ; and you had better
tell him so." "The fact is, Mr. Kissing," said the
private secretary the next day to the secretary, — Mr.
Kissing was at that time secretary to the board of
commissioners for the receipt of income tax — "the
fact is, Mr. Kissing, Sir Raffle should never attempt to

UP IN LONDON. 203

write a letter himself. He does n't know how to do
it. He always says twice too much, and yet not half
enough. I wish you 'd tell him so. He won't believe
me." From which it will be seen Mr. Eames was
proud of his special accomplishment, but did not feel
any gratitude to the master who assumed to himself
the glory of having taught him. On the present
occasion John Eames wrote all his letters before he
thought again of Lily Dale, and was able to write
them without interruption, as the chairman was absent
for the day at the Treasury ,^-or perhaps at his club.
Then, when he had finished, he rang his bell, and
ordered some sherry and soda-water, and stretched
himself before the fire, — as though his exertions in the
public service had been very great, — and seated him-
self comfortably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and
again took out Lady Julia's letter.

As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir
RafBe and Mr. Kissing had given orders that on no
account should cigars be lit within the precincts of the
Income-tax Office. Mr. Eames had taken upon him-
self to understand that such orders did not apply to a
private secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle
knew his habit. To Mr. Kissing, I regret to say, he
put himself in opposition whenever and wherever
opposition was possible ; so that men in the office said
that one of the two must go at last. " But Johnny can
do anything, you know, because he has got money."
That was too frequently the opinion finally expressed
among the men.

So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water,
and smoked his cigar, and read his letter ; or rather,
simply that paragraph of the letter which referred to

204 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Miss Dale. " The tidings of her death have disturbed
her, and set her thinking again of things that were
fading from her mind.'* He understood it all. And
yet how could it possibly be so ? How could it be
that she should not despise a man,— despise him if she
did not hate him, — ^who had behaved as this man had
behaved to her ? It was now four years since this
Crosbie had been engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted
her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man
in London who had heard the story. He had married
an earrs daughter who had left him within a few
months of their marriage, and now Mr. Crosbie^s noble
wife was dead. The wife was dead, and simply be-
cause the man was free again, he, John Eames, was to
be told that Miss Dale's mind was " disturbed," and
that her thoughts were going back to things which had
faded from her memory, and which should have been
long since banished altogether from such holy ground.
If Lily Dale were now to many Mr. Crosbie, any-
thing so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames
would never yet have been told in romance. That
was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his
cigar. I have said that he was proud of his constancy,
and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it. He
acknowledged the fact of his love, and believed himself
to have out-Jacobed Jacob; but Ife felt that it was
hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had
done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion.
It was now four years ago, — ^that affair of Crosbie, —
and Miss Dale should have accepted him long since.
Half-a-dozen times he had made up his mind to be
very stem to her; and he had written somewhat
sternly, — ^but the first moment that he saw her he was

UP IN LONDON. 305

conquered a^ain. " And now that brute will reappear,
and everything will be wrong again/' he said to him-
self. If the brute did reappear, something should hap-
pen of which the world should hear the tidings. So
he lit another cigar, and began to think what that
something should be.

As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh,
rattling winds in the next room, and he knew that Sir
Raffle had come back from the Treasury. There was
a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a
iii3iging of bells^ and then a loud angry voice, — a, voice
that was very hardi, and on this occasion very angry.
Why had not his twelve o'clock lett^s been sent up to
him to the West End ? Why not ? Mr. Eames knew
all about it Why did Mr. Eames know all about it ?
Why had not Mr. Eames sent them up ? Where was
Mr. Eames ? Let Mr. Eames be sent to him. All of
which Mr. Eames heard standing with the ci^u* in his
mouth and his back to the £re. *' Somebody has been
bullying old BufQe, I suppose. After all, he has been
at die Treasury to-day/' said Eames to himself. But
he did not stir till the messenger had been to him, nor
ev&i then, at once. ^' All right, RaflFerty," he said ;
"I '11 go in just now." Then he took half-a-dozen
more whiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into
the fire, and opened the door which communicated
between his room and Sir Raffle's.

The great man was standing with two unopened
epistles in his hand. " Eames," said he, " here are let-
ters " Then he stopped himself, and began upon

another subject. " Did I not give express orders that
I would have no smoking in the office ? "

" I think Mr. Kissing said something about it, sir."

206 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF fiARSET.

" Mr. Kissing I It was not Mr. Kissing at all. It
was I. I gave the order myself."

" You '11 find it began with Mr. Kissing."

" It did not begin with Mr. Kissing ; it began and
ended with me. What are you going to do, sir ? "
John Eames had stepped towards the bell, and his hand
was already on the bell-pull.

" I was going to ring for the papers, sir."

" And who told you to ring for the papers ? I don't
want the papers. The papers won't show anything.
I suppose my word may be taken without the papers.

Since you 're so fond of Mr. Kissing "

I 'm not fond of Mr. Kissing at all."
You '11 have to go back to him, and let somebody
come here who will not be too independent to obey
my orders. Here two most important letters have
been lying here all day, instead of being sent up to me
at the Treasury."

" Of course they have been lying there. I thought
you were at the club."

" I told you I should go to the Treasury. I have
been there all the morning with the chancellor," —
when Sir RafBe spoke officially of the chancellor he
was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor — " and
here I find letters which I ji'articularly wanted lying
upon my desk now. I must put an end to this kind
of thing. I must, indeed. If you like the outer office
better say so at once, and you can go."
I '11 think about it. Sir Raffle."
Think about it ! What do you mean by thinking
about it ? But I can't talk about that now. I 'm very
busy, and shall be here till past seven. I suppose you
can stay ? "

UP IN LONDON. 207

"All night, if you wish it, sir."

"Very well. That will do for the present. I
would n't have had these letters delayed for twenty
pounds."

" I don't suppose it would have mattered one straw
if both of them remained unopened till next week."

This last little speech, however, was not made aloud
to Sir Raffle, but by Johnny to himself in the solitude
of his own room.

Very soon after that he went away, Sir Raffle having
discovered that one of the letters in question required
his immediate return to the West End. " I Ve changed
my mind about staying. I shan't stay now. I should
have done so if these letters had reached me as they
ought."

Then I suppose I can go ? "

You can do as you like about that," said Sir Raffle.

Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his
club ; and as he went he resolved that he would put
an end, and at once, to the present trouble of his life.
Lily Dale should accept him or reject him ; and, tak-
ing either the one or the other alternative, she should
hear a bit of his mind plainly spoken.

CHAPTER XVI.

DOWN AT ALLINGTON.

It was Christmas-time down at AUington, and at
three o'clock on Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of
the early winter evening was coming on, Lily Dale and
Grace Crawley were seated together, one above the
other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Ailing-
ton Church. They had been working all day at the
decorations of the church, and they were now looking
round them at the result of their handiwork. To an
eye unused to the gloom the place wotdd have been
nearly dark ; but they could see every comer turned
by the ivy sprigs, and every line on which the holly-
leaves were shining. And the greeneries of the winter
had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, idle way,
a bough just fastened up here and a twig inserted
there ; but everything had been done with some mean-
ing, with some thought towards the original architecture
of the building. The Gothic lines had been followed,
and all the lower arches which it had been possible to
reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as truly
with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned orig-
inally with the stone.

" I would n't tie another twig," said the elder girl,
" for all the Christmas pudding that was ever boiled."

" It 's lucky then that there is n't another twig to tie."

" I don't know about that. I see a score of places

208

DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 8O9

where the work has been scamped. This is the sixth
time I have done the church, and I don't think I '11
ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and
I, — before Bell was married, — Mrs. Boyce, and the
Boycian establishment generally, used to come and
help. Or rather we used to help her. Now she hardly
ever looks after it at all."

" She is older, I suppose."

" She is a little older, and a deal idler. Sow idle
people do get! Look at him. Since he has had a
curate he hardly ever stirs round the parish. And he

is getting so fat that H — ^sh! Here she is herself,

— come to give her judgment upon Us." Then a stout
lady, the wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle.
" Well, girls," she said, " you have worked hard, and I
am siu"e Mr. Boyce will be very much obliged to you."

"Mr. Boyce, indeed!" said Lily Dale. "We shall
expect the whole parish to rise from their seats and
thank us. Why did n*t Jane and Bessy come and
help us ? "

" They were so tired when they came in from the
coal club. Besides, they don't care for this kind of
thing, — 'not as you do.*'

" Jane is utilitarian to the backbone, I know,'* said
Lily, " and Bessy does n't like getting up ladders."

" As for ladders," said Mrs. Boyce, defending her
daughter, " I am not quite sure that Bessy is n't right.
You don't mean to say that you did all those in the
capitals yourself ? "

" Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and
cut the sticks ; and as Hopkins is just a hundred and
one years old, we could have done it pretty nearly a»
well alone."

VOL. I. — 14

2IO THE LAST CHRONldLE OF BARSET.

" I do not think that," said Grace.

" He has been grumbling all the time," said Lily,
" and swears he never will have the laurels so robbed
again. Five or six years ago he used to declare that
death would certainly save him from the pain of such
another desecration before the next Christmas; but
he has given up that foolish notion now, and talks as
though he meant to protect the AUington shrubs at any
rate to the end of this century."

" I am sure we gave our share from the parsonage,"
said Mrs. Boyce, who never understood a joke.

" All the best came from the parsonage, as of course
they ought," said Lily. " But Hopkins had to make
up the deficiency. And as my uncle told him to take
the hay-cart for them instead of the hand-barrow, he
is broken-hearted."

" I am sure he was very good-natiu^ed," said Grace.

" Nevertheless he is broken-hearted ; and I am very
good-natured too, and I am broken-backed. Who is
going to preach to-morrow morning, Mrs. Boyce ? "
Mr. Swanton will preach in the morning."
Tell him not to be long, because of the children's
pudding. Tell Mr. Boyce if Mr. Swanton is long, we
won't any of us come next Sunday."

" My dear, how can you say such wicked things! I
shall not tell him anything of the kind."

" That 's not wicked, Mrs. Boyce. If I were to say
I had eaten so much lunch that I did n't want any
dinner, you 'd understand that. If Mr. Swanton will
preach for three-quarters of an hour "

"He only preached for three-quarters of an hour
once, Lily."

" He has been over the half -hour every Sunday since

DOWN AT ALLINGTON. '211

he has been here. His average is over forty minutesi
and I say it 's a shame."

" It is not a shame at all, Lily," said Mrs. Boyce,
becoming very serious.

" Look at my uncle ; he does n't like to go to sleep,
and he has to suffer a purgatory in keeping himself
awake."

" If your uncle is heavy, how can Mr. Swanton help
it ? If Mr. Dale's mind were on the subject he would
not sleep."

" Come, Mrs. Boyce ; there *s somebody else sleeps
sometimes besides my uncle. When Mr. Boyce puts
up his finger and just touches his nose I know as well
as possible why he does it."

" Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is
not true. I don't know how you can bring yourself to
talk in that way of your own clergyman. If I were to
tell your mamma she would be shocked."

" You won't be so ill-natured, Mrs. Boyce, — after all
that I 've done for the church."

" If you 'd think more about the clergjrman, Lily,
and less about the church," said Mrs. Boyce, very
sententiously, " more about the matter and less about
the manner, more of the reality and less of the form, I
think you 'd find that your religion would go further
with you. Miss Crawley is the daughter of a clergy-
man, and I 'm sure she '11 agree with me."

" If she agrees with anybody in scolding me I '11
quarrel with her."

I did n't mean to scold you, Lily."
I don't mind it from you, Mrs. Boyce. Indeed, I
rather like it. It is a sort of pastoral visitation ; and
as Mr. Boyce never scolds me himself, of course I take

212 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

it as coming from him by attorney." Then there was

silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs. Boyce
was endeavouring to discover whether Miss Dale was
laughing at her or not. As she was not quite certain,
she thought at last that she would let the suspected
fault pass unobserved. "Don't wait for us, Mrs.
Boyce," said Lily. " We must remain till Hopkins has
sent Gregory to sweep the church out and take away
the rubbish. We 11 see that the key k left at Mrs.
Giles's."

" Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I
thought I *d come in and see that it was all right.
I 'm sure Mr. Boyce will be very much obliged to you
and Miss Crawley. Good-night, my dear."

" Good-night, Mrs. Boyce ; and be sure you don't
let Mr. Swanton be long to-morrow." To this parting
shot Mrs. Boyce made no rejoinder ; but she hurried
out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, and
closed the door after her with something of a slam.

Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in
the handling of things supposed to be sacred, and next
to them clergymen's wives, and after them those other
ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves semi-
clerical duties. And it is natiu^al that it should be so ;
for is it not said that familiarity does breed contempt ?
When a parson takes his lay friend over his church on
a week-day, how much less of the spirit of genuflexion
and head-uncovering the clergyman will display than
the layman! The parson pulls about the woodwork
and knocks about the stonework, as though it were
mere wood and stone; and talks aloud in the aisle,
and treats even the reading-desk as a common thing ;
whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries himself

DOWN AT ALLIKGTON. 2i^

as though even in looking at a chnrch he was bound
to regard himself as perfonning some service that was
half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were
both accustomed to churches, and had been so long
at work in this church for the last two days, that the
building had lost to them much of its sacfedness, and
they w&:e almost as irreverent as though they were two
curates.

" I am so glad she has gone/' said Lily. " We shall
have to stop here for the next hour as Gregory won't
know what to take away and whAt to leave. I was
so afraid she was going to scop and see tts off the
premises."

'' I don^t know why you should dislike her."

'' I don't disUke her. I like her very welt,'' said Lily
Dale. '^ But don't you feel that there are people whom
one knows very intimately, who are really friends,— ^f or
whom if they were dying one would grieve, whom if
they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but
with whom for all that one can have no sympathy?
And yet they are so near to one that they know all the
events c^ one's life, and are justified by unquestioned
friendship m talking about tilings which should never
be mentioned except where sympathy exists."

" Yes ; I understand that."

*' Everybody undentands it who has been unhappy.
That woman sometimes says things to me that make
me w»h, — ^wish that they 'd make him bi^op of Pata-
gonia. And yet she does it all in friendship, and
mamma says diat she is quite right."

I liked her for standing up for her husband.'*
But he does go to sleep, — and then he scratches
his nose to show that he *s awake. I should n't have

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214 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

said it, only she is always hinting at uncle Christopher.
Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep when Mr.
Boyce preaches, and he has n't studied any scientific
little movements during his slumbers to make people
believe that he 's all alive. I gave him a hint one
day, and he got so angry with me! "

" I should n't have thought he could have been
angry with you. It seems to me from what you say
that you may do whatever you please with him."

" He is very good to me. If you knew it all,— r-if
you could understand how good he has been! I '11
try and tell you some day. It is not what he has done
that makes me love him so, — but what he has thor-
oughly understood, and what, so understanding, he has
not done, and what he has not said. It is a case of
sympathy. If ever there was a gentleman uncle Chris-
topher is one. And I used to dislike him so at one
time!"

" And why ? "

" Chiefly because he would make me wear brown
frocks when I wanted to have them pink or green.
And he kept me for six months from having them
long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half an
inch on the ground for him to tread upon."

" I should n't mind that if I were you."

" I don't, — ^not now. But it used to be serious when
I was a young girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that
he was cross to mamma. He and mamma did n't
agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is quite
true that he did dislike mamma when we first came
here."

" I can't think how anybody could ever dislike Mrs.
Dale."

DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 21 5

" But he did. And then he wanted to make up a
marriage between Bell and my cousin Bernard. But
neither of them cared a bit for the other, and then
he used to scold them, — and then, — and then, — and
then Oh, he was so good to me ! Here 's Greg-
ory at last. Gregory, we Ve been waiting this hour
and a half/'

" It ain't ten minutes since Hopkins let me come
with the barrows, miss."

" Then Hopkins is a -traitor. Never mind. You 'd
better begin now, — ^up there at the steps. It '11 be
quite dark in a few minutes. Here 's Mrs. Giles with
her broom. Come, Mrs. Giles ; we shall have to pass
the night here if you don't make haste. Are you cold,
Grace ? "

" No ; I 'm not cold. I 'm thinking what they are
doing now in the church at Hogglestock."

The Hogglestock church is not pretty ; — ^like this ? "
Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with
something like a pigeon-house for a belfry. And the
pulpit is over the reading-desk, and the reading-desk
over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is
nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is
divided into pews, in which the farmers hide themselves
when they come to church."

"So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep
or no. Oh, Mrs. Giles, you must n't pull that down.
That 's what we have been putting up all day."

" But it be in the way, miss ; so that the minister
can't budge in or out o' the door."

" Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the
other. That would be too much after all our trouble ! "
And Miss Dale hurried across the chancel to save

2l6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

3ome prettily arching boughs, which, in the judgment
of Mrs. Giles, encroached too much on the vestry door.
*' As if it signified which side he was,'' she said in a
whisper to Grace.

" I don't suppose they '11 have anything in the church
at home," said Grace.

" Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I daie
say.''

" Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hoggle-
stock to stick up wreaths, or to do anything for the
prettinesses of life. And now there wiU be less done
than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves
in her present state ? And yet she will miss them, too.
Poor mamma sees very little that is pretty ; but she
has not forgotten how pleasant pretty things are.*'
I wish I knew your mother, Grace."
I think it would be impossible for any one to know
mamma now, — for any one who had not known her
before. She never makes even a new acquaintance.
She &eems to think that there is nothing left for her
in the world but to try and keep papa out of misery.
And she does not succeed in that. Poor papal "

"Is he very unhappy about this wicked accusa-
tion ? "

" Yes ; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I dpn't know
about its being wicked."

But you know that it is untrue."
Of course I know that papa did not mean to take
anything that was not his own. But, you see, no-
body knows where it came from ; and nobody except
mamma, and Jane and I understand how very absent
papa can be. I 'm sure he does n't know the least in
the world how he came by it himself, or he would tell

it
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ft
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if
it

DOWN AT ALLINGTON. , aiy

mamma. Do you know, Lily, I think I have been
wrong to come away."

"Don't say that, dear. Remember how anxious
Mrs. Crawley was that you should come."

" But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while
they are so wretched at home. It seems such a mock-
ery. Every time I find myself smiling at what you say
to me, I think I must be the most heartless creature in
the world."

Is it so very bad with them, Grace ? "
Indeed it is bad. I don't think you can imagine
what mamma has to go through. She has to cook all
that is «aten in the house, and then, very often, there
is no money in the house to buy anything. If you
were to see the clothes she wears, even that would
make your heart bleed. I who have been used to
being poor all my life,— even I, when I am at home,
am dismayed by what she has to endure."

" What can we do for her, Grace ? "

" You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are
like that at home you can understand what I feel in
being here."

Mrs. Giles and Gregory had now completed their
task, or had so nearly done so as to make Miss Dale
think that she might safely leave the church. *^ We
will go in now,'* she said ; " for it is dark and cold,
and what I call creepy. Do you ever fancy that
perhaps you will see a ghost some day ? "

*' I don't think I shall ever see a ghost ; but all the
&ame I should be half afraid to be here alone in the
dark."

" I am often here alone in the dark, but I am be-
ginning to think I shall never see a ghost now. I am

8l8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

losing all my romance, and getting to be an old woman.
Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for being
such an old maid."

" But who says you 're an old maid, Lily ? "
" I see it in people's eyes, and hear it in their voices.
And they all talk to me as if I were very steady, and
altogether removed from anything like fun and frolic.
It seems to be admitted that if a girl does not want to
fall in love, she ought not to care for any other fun in
the world. If anybody made out a list of the old
ladies in these parts, they 'd put down Lady Julia
and mamma, and Mrs. Boyce and me, and old Mrs.
Hearn. The very children have an awful respect for
me, and give over playing direcdy they see me. Well,
mamma, we 've done at last, and I have had such a
scolding from Mrs. Boyce."

I dare say you deserved it, my dear."
No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did."
Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyce, Miss Crawley ? "
"She said that Mr. Boyce scratches his nose in
church," said Grace.

So he does ; and goes to sleep, too."
If you told Mrs. Boyce that, Lily, I think she was
quite right to scold you."

Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley
was stajang ; — Lily Dale with whom Mr. John Eames,
of the Income-tax Office, had been so long and so
steadily in love that he was regarded among his fellow-
clerks as a miracle of constancy, — who had, herself, in
former days been so unfortunate in love as to have
been regarded among her friends in the country as the
most ill-used of women. As John Emaes had been
able to be comfortable in life, — that is to say, not

ft
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DOWN AT ALLINGTON. aig

Utterly a wretch, — ^in spite of his love, so had she man-
aged to hold up her head, and live as other young
women live, in spite of her misfortune. But as it may
be said also that his constancy was true constancy,
although he knew how to enjoy the good things of
the world, so also had her misfortune been a true mis-
fortune, although she had been able to bear it without
much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days, — ^for
a week or two, when the blow first struck her, she had
been knocked down, and the friends who were nearest
to her had thought that she would never again stand
erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong,
stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of re-
sistance against oppression. Even her own mother
had been astonished, and sometimes almost dismayed,
by the strength of her will. Her mother knew well
how it was with her now ; but they who saw her fre-
quently, and who did not know her as her mother knew
her, — the Mrs. Boyces of her acquaintance, — whispered
among themselves that Lily Dale was not so soft of
heart as people used to think.

On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader
will remember, Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at
the big house with the old squire. Mrs. Dale's eldest
daughter, with her husband. Dr. Crofts, was to be
there ; and also Lily's old friend, who was also espe-
cially the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De
Guest. Grace had endeavoured to be excused from
the party, pleading many pleas. But the upshot of all
her pleas was this, — that while her father's position was
so painful she ought not to go out anywhere. In
answer to this, Lily Dale, corroborated by her mother,
assured her that for her father's sake she ought not to

aSO THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

exhibit any such feeling ; that in doing so, she would
seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence.
Then she allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her
friend, however, that she knew the day would be very
miserable to her. " It will be very humdrum, if you
please," said Lily. " Nothing can be more humdrum
than Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless,
you must go."

Coming out of church, Grace was introduced to the
old squire. He was a thin, old man, with grey hair,
and the smallest possible grey whiskers, with a dry,
solemn face ; not carrying in his outward gait much of
the customary jollity of Christmas. He took his hat
off to Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping
to have the pleasure of seeing her at dinner. It
sounded very cold to her, and she became at once
afraid of him. ** I wish I was not going," she said to
Lily, again. " I know he thinks I ought not to go. I
shall be so thankful if you will but let me stay."

'' Don't be foolish^ Grace. It all comes from your
not knowing him, or understanding him. And how
should you understand him ? I give you my word that
I would tell you if I did not know that he wishes yoa
to go."

She had to go. " Of course I have. n't a dress fit
How should I ? " she said to Lily. " How wrong it is
of me to put myself up to such a thing as this."

'' Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us
going in evening-dresses. Pray believe that I will not
make you do wrong. If you won't trust me, can't you
trust mamma ? "

Of course she went. When the three ladies entered
the drawing-room of the Great House they found thai

POWN AT ALUNGTON. 32 1

Lady Julia had arrived before them. Lady Julia im-
mediately took hold of Lily, and led her apart, having
a word or two to say about the clerk in the Income-
tax Office. I am not sure but what the dear old
woman sometimes said a few more words than were
expedient, with a view to the object which she had so
closely at heart. " John is to be with us the first week
in February," she said. " I suppose you *11 see him
before that, as he 'U probably be with his mother a few
days before he comes to me.'*

" I dare say we shall see him quite in time, Lady
Julia," said Lily.

'* Now, Lily, don't be ill-natured."

" I *m the most good-natured young woman alive.
Lady Julia, and as for Johnny, he is always made
as welcome at the Small House as violets in March.
Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all
manner of flattering questions, as though he were a
Cabinet minister at least, and I always admire some
little knicknack that he has got, a new ring, or a stud,
or a button. There is n*t another man in all the world
whose buttons I 'd look at."
It is n't his buttons, Lily."
Ah, that 's just it. I can go as far as his buttons.
But come, Lady Julia, this is Christmas-time, and
Christmas should be a holiday."

In the mean time Mrs. Dale was occupied with her
married daughter and her son-in-law, and the squire
had attached himself to poor Grace. "You have
never been in this part of the country before. Miss
Crawley," he said.
No, sir."
It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick

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222 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Manor is a fine place in its way, but we Have not so
much natural beauty as you have in Barsetshire. Chaldi-
cote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in England."

" I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It is n't pretty
at all at Hogglestock, where we live."

"Ah, I forgot! No; it is not very pretty at Hog-
glestock. That *s where the bricks come from."
Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock."
Yes, yes; I remember. Your father is a great
scholar. I have often heard of him. I am so sorry
he should be distressed by this charge they have made.
But it will all come right at the assizes. They always
get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a
clergyman in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly;" —
Grace felt that her ears were tingling, and that her face
was red; — "Archdeacon Grantly. His father was
bishop of the diocese."

Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead."
I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr.
Thorne of UUathome, who lives close to Plumstead,
and saw a good deal of them. I remember thinking
Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married
afterwards."

" Yes, sir ; but his wife is dead now, and he has got
a little girl, — Edith Grantly."

" Is there no other child ? "

"No, sir; only Edith."

" You know him, then ? "

" Yes, sir ; I know Major Grantly, — and Edith. I
never saw Archdeacon Grantly."

" Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar
of the church. I remember when people used to talk
a great deal about Archdeacon Grantly ; but when his

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DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 223

time came to be made a bishop, he was not sufficiently
new-fangled ; and so he got passed by. He is much
better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work
very hard, my dear."
Do they, sir ? "

So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy
man. So Henry Grantly has got an only daughter ? I
hope she is a nice child, for I remember hking him well."

"She is a very nice child, indeed, Mr. Dale. She
could not be nicer. And she is so lovely." Then Mr.
D^le looked into his yoimg companion's face, struck
by the sudden animation of her words, and perceived
for the first time that she was very pretty.

After this Grace became accustomed to the strange-
ness of the faces round her, and managed to eat her
dinner without much perturbation of spirit. When
after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should
drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was al-
most reduced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing
it. It was terrible to her to have them mentioned,
knowing as she did that every one who mentioned
them must be aware of their misery, — for the misfort-
une of her father had become notorious in the country ;
but it was almost more terrible to her that no allusion
should be made to them ; for then she would be driven
to think that her father was regarded as a man whom
the world could not afford to mention.

" Papa and mamma," she just murmured, raising her
glass to her lips.

"Grace, dear," said Lily from across the table,
"here 's papa and mamma, and the young man at
Marlborough who is carrying everything before him."

" Yes ; we won't forget the young man at Marlbor-

224 THE LAST CHRONICLE OP BARSET.

ough/' said the squire. Grace felt this to be good-
natured, because her brother at Marlborough was the
one bright spot in her family) — and she was comforted.

" And we will drink the health of my friend, John
Eames," said Lady Julia.

" John Eames's health," said the squire, in a low voice.

" Johnny's health," said Mrs. Dale ; but Mrs. Dale's
voice was not very brisk.

"John's health," said Dr. Crofts and Mrs. Crofts in
a breath.

" Here 's the health of Johnny Eames," said Lily ;
and her voice was the clearest and the boldest of them
all. But she made up her mind that if Lady Julia could
not be induced to spare her for the future, she and Lady
Julia must quarrel. "No one can understand," she
said to her mother that evening, " how dreadful it is,— *-
this being constantly told before one's family and
friends that one ought to marry a certain young man."

" She did n't say that, my dear."

" I should much prefer that she should, for then I
could get up on my legs and answer her off the reel.
Of course everybody there understood what she meant,
— ^including old John Bates, who stood at the sideboard
and coolly drank the toast himself."

" He always does that to all the family toasts on
Christmas Day. Your uncle likes it.''

" That was n't a family toast, and John Bates had
no right to drink it."

After dinner they all played cards, — a round game,
— and the squire put in the stakes. " Now, Grace,"
said Lily, " you are the visitor, and you must win, or
else uncle Christopher won't be happy. He always
likes a young Mdy visitor to win.''

DOWN AT ALLINGTON. 225

But I never played a game of cards in my life."
Go and sit next to him and he *11 teach you.
Uncle Christopher, won't you teach Grace Crawley ?
She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life before."

" Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear,
dear, dear ; fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl.
What a handsome lad he was. And it seems only
yesterday." If it were so that Lily had said a word
to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire
had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may,
Grace Crawley thought that he was a pleasant old
man ; and though, while talking to him about Edith,
she persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that
he could not contrive that she should win, neverthe-
less the squire took to her very kindly, and told her to
come up with Lily and see him sometimes while she
was staying at the Small House. The squire in speak-
ing of his sister-in-law's cottage always called it the
Small House.

" Only think of my winning," said Lady Julia, draw-
ing together her wealth. " Well, I 'm sure I want it
bad enough, for I don't at all know whether I Ve got
any income of my own. It 's all John Eames's fault,
my dear, for he won't go and make those people settle
it in Lincoln's Inn Fields." Poor Lily, who was stand-
ing on the hearthrug, touched her mother's arm. She
knew that Johnny's name was lugged in with reference
to Lady Julia's money altogether for her benefit. " I
wonder whether she ever had a Johnny of her own,"
she said to her mother, " and, if so, whether she liked
it when her friends sent the town-crier round to talk
about him."

" She means to be good-natured," said Mrs. Dale.

VOL. I. —15

226 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Of course she does. But it is such a pity when
people won't understand."

" My uncle did n*t bite you after all, Grace," said
Lily to her friend as they were going home at night, by
the pathway which led from the garden of one house
to the garden of the other.

" I like Mr. Dale very much," said Grace. " He
was very kind to me."

" There is some queer-looking animal of whom they
say that he is better than he looks, and I always think
of that saying when I think of my uncle."

" For shame, Lily," said her mother. " Your uncle,
for his age, is as good a looking man as I know. And
he always looks like jiist what he is, — an English
gentleman."

" I did n*t mean to say a word against his dear old
face and figure, mamma ; but his heart, and mind,
and general disposition, as they come out in experience
and days of trial, are so much better than the samples
of them which he puts on the counter for men and
women to judge by. He wears well, and he washes
well, — if you know what I mean, Grace."

" Yes ; I think I know what you mean."

"The ApoUos of the world, — I don't mean in outward
looks, mamma, — ^but the Apollos in heart, the men, —
and the women too, — who are so full of feeling, so soft-
natured, so kind, who never say a cross woyd, who
never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morn-
ing, — it so often turns out that they won't wash."

Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale's experi-
ence.

CHAPTER XVII.

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER.

The scene which occmred in Hogglestock church
on the Sunday after Mr. Thumble's first visit to that
parish had not been described with absolute accuracy
either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or by
Mrs. Thome. There had been no footman from the
palace in attendance on Mr. Thumble, nor had there
been a battle with the brickmakers ; neither had Mr.
Thumble been put under the pump. But Mr. Thumble
had gone over, taking his gown and surplice with him,
on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr.
Crawley his intention of performing the service. Mr.
Crawley, in answer to this, had assured Mr. Thumble
that he would not be allowed to open his mouth in the
church ; and Mr. Thumble, not seeing his way to any
further successful action, had contented himself with
attending the services in his surplice, making thereby a
silent protest that he, and not Mr. Crawley, ought to
have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit.

When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure
at the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs.
Proudie, but not successfully. He knew something of
the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop
alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his
lordship for such an interview by the remarkable cir-

227

228 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

cumstances of the case and the importance of his late
mission. Mrs. Proudie always went to church on Sun-
day evenings, making a point of hearing three services
and three sermons every Sunday of her Ufe. On week-
days she seldom heard any, having an idea that week-
day services were an invention of the High-Church
enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently
discouraged. Services on saints' days she regarded as
rank papacy, and had been known to accuse a clergy-
man's wife, to her face, of idolatry, because the poor
lady had dated a letter St. John's Eve. Mr. Thumble, on
this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop
at home, and alone, but he was not lucky enough to
get away before Mrs. Proudie returned. The bishop,
perhaps, thought that the story of the failure had better
reach his wife's ears from Mr. Thumble's lips than
from his own.

"Well, Mr. Thumble!" said Mrs. Proudie, walking
into the study, armed in her full Sunday-evening winter
panoply, in which she had just descended from her
carriage. The church which Mrs. Proudie attended
in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace,
and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on
a Sunday night. She was gorgeous in a dark brown
silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions ; and
on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and
fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its pro-
portions on all sides as necessarily to create more of
dismay than of admiration in the mind of any ordinary
man. And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet with
the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior,
always ready for combat, and careless to guard itself
from attack. The large contorted bows which she

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 229

bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, beautiful,
doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling. In her
hand she carried her armour all complete, a prayer-
book, a Bible, and a book of hymns. These the foot-
man had brought for her to the study-door, but she
had thought fit to enter her husband's room with them
in her own custody. " Well, Mr. Thumblel " she said.
Mr. Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, proba-
bly, that the bishop might choose to explain the cir-
cumstances. But neither did the bishop say anything.
" Well, Mr. Thumble ! " she said again ; and then she
stood looking at the man who had failed so disastrously.

" I have explained to the bishop," said he. " Mr.
Crawley has been contiunacious, — very contumacious
indeed."

But you preached at Hogglestock ? "
No, indeed, Mrs. Proudie. Nor would it have
been possible, unless I had had the police to assist me,"

"Then you should have had the police. I never
heard of anything so mismanaged in all my life; —
never in all my life." And she put her books down
on the study table, and turned herself round from Mr.
Thumble towards the bishop. " If things go on Hke
this, my lord," she said, " your authority in the diocese
will very soon be worth nothing at all." It was not
often that Mrs. Proudie called her husband my lord, but
when she did so, it was a sign that terrible times had
come ;— times so terrible that the bishop would know
that he must either fight or fly. He would almost en-
dure anything rather than descend into the arena for
the purpose of doing battle with his wife, but occasions
would come now and again when even the alternative
of flight was hardly left to him.

230 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" But, my dear " began the bishop.

" Am I to understand that this man has professed
himself to be altogether indifferent to the bishop's pro-
hibition ? " said Mrs. Proudie, interrupting her husband
and addressing Mr. Thumble.

" Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had
no lawful power in the matter at all," said Mr. Thumble.

" Do you hear that, my lord ? " said Mrs. Proudie.

" Nor have I any," said the bishop, almost weeping
as he spoke.

" No authority in your own diocese! "

*' None to silence a man merely by my own judg-
ment. I thought, and still think, that it was for this
gentleman's own interest, as well as for the credit of
the church, that some provision should be made for
his duties during his present— present— difficulties."

"Difficulties indeed! Everybody knows that the
man has been a thief."

No, my dear ; I do not know it."
You never know anything, bishop."

" I mean to say that I do not know it officially. Of
course I have heard the sad story; and, though I
hope it may not be the "

" There is no doubt about its truth. All the world
knows it. He has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is
to be allowed to desecrate the church, and imperil the
souls of the people!" The bishop got up from his
chair and began to walk backwards and forwards
through the room with short quick steps. " It only
wants five days to Christmas Day," continued Mrs.
Proudie, "and something must be done at once. I
say nothing as to the propriety or impropriety of his
being out on bail, as it is no affair of ours. When I

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 23 1

heard that he had been bailed by a beneficed clergy-
man of this diocese, of course I knew where to look
for the man who would act with so much impropriety.
Of course I was not surprised when I found that that
person belonged to Framley. But, as I have said
before, that is no business of ours, I hope, Mr. Thum-
ble, that the bishop will never be found interfering
with the ordinary laws of the land. I am very sure
that he will never do so by my advice. But when
there comes a question of inhibiting a clergyman who
has committed himself as this clergyman unfortunately
has done, then I say that that clergyman ought to be
inhibited." The bishop walked up and down the
room throughout the whole of this speech, but gradu-
ally his steps became quicker, and his turns became
shorten " And now here is Christmas Day upon us,
and what is to be done?" With these words Mrs.
Proudie finished her speech.

" Mr. Thumble," said the bishop, " perhaps you had
better now retire. I am very sorry that you should
have had so thankless and so disagreeable a task."

'* Why should Mr. Thumble retire ? " asked Mrs.
Proudie.

" I think it better," said the bishop. " Mr. Thumble,
good-night." Then Mr. Thumble did retire, and Mrs.
Proudie stood forth in her full panoply of armour,
silent and awful, with her helmet erect, and vouchsafed
no rocognition whatever of the parting salutation with
which Mr. Thumble greeted her. " My dear, the truth
is, you do not understand the matter," said the bishop
as soon as the door was closed. " You do not know
how limited is my power."

" Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than

333 THE LAST CHRONICLE OP BARSET.

some people ; and I understand also what is due to
myself and the manner in which I ought to be treated
by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy of the
diocese. I shall not, however, remain here to be in*
suited either in the presence or in the absence of any
one." Then the conquered amazon collected together
the weapons which she had laid upon the table, and
took her departure with majestic step, and not without
the clang of arms. The bishop, when he was left alone,
enjoyed for a few moments the triumph of his victory.

But then he was left so very much alone! When
he looked round about him upon his solitude after the
departure of his wife, and remembered that he should
not see her again till he should encounter her on ground
that was all her own, he regretted his own success, and
was tempted to follow her and to apologise. He was
unable to do anything alone. He would not even know
how to get his tea, as the very servants would ask
questions, if he were to do so unaccustomed a thing as
to order it to be brought up to him in his solitude.
They would tell him that Mrs. Proudie was having tea
in her little sitting-room upstairs, or else that the
things were laid in the drawing-room. He did wander
forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find
his wife there; but the drawing-room was dark and
deserted, and so he wandered back again. It was a
grand thing certainly to have triumphed over his wife,
and there was a crumb of comfort in the thou^t that
he had vindicated himself before Mr. Thumble ; but the
general result was not comforting, and he knew from
of old how short-lived his triumph would be.

But wretched as he was during that evening he did
employ himself with some energy. After much thought

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 233

he resolved that he would again write to Mr. Crawley,
and summon him to appear at the palace. In doing
this he would at any rate be doing something. There
would be action. And though Mr. Crawley would,
as he thought, decline to obey the order, something
would be gained even by that disobedience. So he
wrote his sununons, — sitting very comfortless and all
alone on that Sunday evening,—- dating his letter, how-
ever, for the following day : —

** Palace, December 20, 186 — .

" Reverend Sir, — I have just heard from Mr. Thum-
ble that you have declined to accede to the advice
which I thought it my duty to tender to you as the
bishop who has been set over you by the church, and
that you yesterday insisted on what you believed to
be your right to administer the services in the parish
church of Hogglestock* This has occasioned me the
deepest regret. It is, I think, unavailing that I should
further write to you my mind upon the subject, as I
possess such strong evidence that my written word
will not be respected by you. I have, therefore, no
alternative now but to invite you to come to me here ;
and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen
to that authority which I cannot but suppose you
acknowledge to be vested in the office which I hold.

" I shall be glad to see you on to-morrow, Tuesday,
as near the hour of two as you can make it convenient
to yourself to be here, and I will take care to order
that refreshment shall be provided for yourself and
your horse.

" I am, Reverend Sir,

"&c. &c. &c.

" Thos. Barnum."

234 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" My dear," he said, when he did again encounter
his wife that night, " I have written to Mr. Crawley,
and I thought I might as weil bring up the copy of
my letter."

" I wash my hands of the whole affair," said Mrs.
Proudie — " of the whole affair! "

" But you will look at the letter ? "

" Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter ?
My word goes for, nothing. I have done what I
could, but in vain. Now let us see how you will
manage it yourself."

The bishop did not pass a comfortable night ; but
in the morning his wife did read his letter and after
that things went a little smoother with him. She was
pleased to say that, considering all things; — seeing, as
she could not help seeing, that the matter had been
dreadfully mismanaged, and that great weakness had
been displayed ; — seeing that these faults had already
been committed, perhaps no better step could now be
taken than that proposed in the letter.

I suppose he will not come;" said the bishop.
I think he will," said Mrs. Proudie, " and I trust
that we may be able to convince him that obedience
will be his best coxu^e. He will be more humble-
minded here than at Hogglestock." In saying this
the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature
of clergymen and of the world at large. She imder-
stood how much louder a cock can crow in its own
farm-yard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal
authority backed by all the solemn awe of palatial
grandeur goes much further than it will do when sent
under the folds of an ordinary envelope. But though

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 235

she understood ordinary human nature, it may be that
she did not understand Mr. Crawley's nature.

But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr.
Crawley's immediate reply. The palace groom who
rode over to Hogglestock returned with an immediate
answer.

" My Lord," (said Mr. Crawley), — " I will obey your
lordship's summons, and, unless impediments should
arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you
name to-morrow. I will not trespass on your hospi-
tality. For myself, I rarely break bread in any house
but my own ; and as to the horse, I have none.

" I have the honour to be,

" My lord, &c. &c.
"JosiAH Crawley."

" Of course I shall go," he had said to his wife as
soon as he had had time to read the letter, and make
known to her the contents. " I shall go if it be possi-
ble for me to get there. I think that I am bound to
comply with the bishop's wishes in so much as that."

" But how will you get there, Josiah ? "

" I will walk, — ^with the Lord's aid."

Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester,
and Mr. Crawley was, as his wife well knew, by no
means fitted in his present state for great physical ex-
ertion. But from the tone in which he had repHed to
her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to
remonstrate at the moment. He had walked more
than thirty miles in a day since they had been living
at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it might
be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme which

336 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

she might be able to devise for saving him from so
terrible a journey in the middle of winter, must be
pondered over silently, and brought to bear, if not
slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She
made no reply therefore when he declared that on the
following day he would walk to Barchester and back,
— with the Lord's aid ; nor did she see, or ask to see,
the note which he sent to the bishop. When the mes-
senger was gone, Mr. Crawley was all alert, looking
forward with evident glee to his encounter with the
bishop, — snorting like a race-horse at the expected
triumph of the coming struggle. And he read much
Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her
young ears, almost with joyous rapture, his apprecia-
tion of the glory and the pathos and the humanity,
as also of the awful tragedy, of the story of CEdipus.
His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the
weak bishop in his hand, and crushing him with his
strong grasp.

In the afternoon Mrs. Crawley slipped out to a
neighbouring farmer's wife, and returned in an hour's
time with a little story which she did not tell with any
appearance of eager satisfaction. She had learned
well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying
of such a matter as that which she had now in hand.
Mr. Mangle, the farmer, as it happened, was going
to-morrow morning in his tax-cart as far as Framley
Mill, and would be delighted if Mr. Crawley would take
a seat. He must remain at Framley the best part of
the afternoon, and hoped that Mr. Crawley would take
a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was only half
a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost
half-way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 237

would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable
distance. Mr. Crawley was instantly placed upon his
guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects
the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was
going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have
induced him to get into the cart. He would have felt
sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity
him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner
have started to walk to London than have put a foot
upon the step of the cart. But this lift half-way did
look to him as though it were really fortuitous. His
wife could hardly have been cunning enough to per-
suade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the
trap would have been suspected had the bait been made
more full. But I fear, — I fear the dear good woman
had been thus cimning, — ^had understood how far the
trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catch-
ing her prey.

On the following morning he consented to get into
farmer Mangle's cart, and was driven as far as Fram-
ley Mill. " I would n*t think nowt, your reverence, of
running you over into Barchester, — that I would n*t.
The powny is so mortial good," said farmer Mangle in
his foolish good-nature.

" And how about your business here ? " said Mr.
Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remember-
ing all Mrs. Crawley's injunctions, and awkwardly
acknowledged that to be sure his own business with
the miller was very pressing. Then Mr. Crawley de-
scended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey.

" Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming
back ? " said farmer Mangle. But Mr. Crawley would
make no promise. He bade the farmer not wait fot

238 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

him. If they chanced to meet together on the road
he might get up again. If the man really had business
at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to
Barchester ? Were they deceiving him ? The wife of
his bosom had deceived him in such matters before
now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated
by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop.
He took great glory from the thought that he would
go before the bishop with dirty boots — ^with boots nec-
essarily dirty, — ^with rusty pantaloons, that he would
be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an
object to be wondered at by all who should see him,
because of the misfortunes which had been unworthily
heaped upon his head ; whereas the bishop would be
sleek and clean and well-fed, — pretty with all the pret-
tinesses that are becoming to a bishop's outward man.
And he, Mr. Crawley, would be humble, whereas the
bishop would be very proud. And the bishop would
be in his own arm-chair, — the cock in his own farm-
yard, while he, Mr. Crawley, would be seated afar off,
in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of out-
ward circumstances to assist him, — a man called thither
to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop
in his grasp and crush him, — crush him, — crush him !
As he thought of this he walked quickly through the
mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far
before him out into the air, and, there and then, he
crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed!
He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would
ever send for him a second time. As all this passed
through his mind, he forgot his wife's cunning, and
farmer Mangle's sin, and for the moment he was happy.
As he turned a comer round by Lord Lufton's park

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 239

paling, who should he meet but his old friend Mr.
Robarts, the parson of Framley, — the parson who had
committed the sin of being bail for him, — the sin, that
is, according to Mrs. Proudie's view of the matter.
He was walking with his hand still stretched out, — still
crushing the bishop, when Mr. Robarts was close upon
him.

" What, Crawley ! upon my word I am very glad to
see you ; you are coming up to me, of course ? "

" Thank you, Mr. Robarts ; no, not to-day. The
bishop has summoned me to his presence, and I am
on my road to Barchester."

" But how are you going ? "

" I shall walk."

" Walk to Barchester. Impossible ! *'

" I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust
I shall get as far before two o'clock ; but to do so I
must be on my road." Then he showed signs of a
desire to go on upon his way without further parley.

" But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is
the horse and gig doing nothing."

"Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no. I should prefer
the walk to-day."

" And you have walked from Hogglestock ? "

" No ; — ^not so. A neighbour coming hither, who
happened to have business at your mill, — ^he brought
me so far in his cart. The walk home will be nothing,
— ^nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good-morning, Mr.
Robarts."

But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of
the bishop's presence, and of his own ideas of what
would be becoming for a clergyman, — ^and persevered.
" You will find the lanes so very muddy ; and our

24^ THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do
be persuaded."

" Notice what things ? " demanded Mr. Crawley, in
an indignant tone.

" He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your
shoes were when you came to the palace."

" If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me
but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very
indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr. Robarts, to care
much what any man or woman may say about my
shoes. Good-morning." Then he stalked on, clutch-
ing and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the
bishop's wife, and the whole diocese, and all the Church
of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose was the
fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled
by unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by
undeserved wealth? If the bishop did not like his
shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so ! So he walked
on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking
his way.

He walked fast, and he found himself in the close
half an hour before the time named by the bishop.
But on no account would he have rung the palace bell
one minute before two o'clock. So he walked up and
down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled
himself, and looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in
the windows of the house of his friend the dean, and
told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean
had been quite equal,— quite equal, except that by
the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he,
Mr Crawley, had been acknowledged to be the riper
scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of those days was
Dean of Barchester, — ^travelling abroad luxuriously at

MR. CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER. 241

this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was
perpetual curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked
into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because
he was suspected of haying stolen twenty pounds!
When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice
of all tliis, his time was up, and he walked boldly to
the bishop's gate, and boldly rang the bishop's bell.

VOL. I. — 1(J

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED.

Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour
rubbed in among the hair on a footman's head, — ^just
one dab here and another there, — gives such a tone of
high life to the family ? And seeing that the thing is
so easily done, why do not more people attempt it ?
The tax on hair-powder is but thirteen shiUings a year.
It may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world
justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times
a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think,
however, that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege
without such heavy attendant expense ; otherwise the
man who opened the bishop's door to Mr. Crawley
would hardly have been so ornamented.

The man asked for a card. " My name is Mr.
Crawley," said our friend. " The bishop has desired
me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased
to tell him that I am here." The man again asked for
a card. " I am not bound to carry with me my name
printed on a ticket," said Mr. Crawley. "If you
cannot remember it, give me pen and paper, and I
will write it." The servant, somewhat awed by the
stranger's manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr.
Crawley wrote his name —

" The Rev. Josiah Crawley, M. A.,

Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock^^
242

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 243

He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to
his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long.
Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop's
study, and into the presence of the two great lumina-
ries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat discon-
certed by finding Mrs. Proudie in the room. In the
imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had
been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the
bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had
suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop
and of the lower clergyman ; but now the line of his
battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury,
but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable
him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him
in the waiting-room, but he kept his old short cloak
still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the
bishop's room his hands and arms were hid beneath it
There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It
showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to
shake hands with the august persons he might meet.
And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great,
bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that
neither the bishop nor Mrs. Proudie could drop it from
their sight during the whole interview. He was a man
who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep
angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling
tales of frequent anger,— of anger frequent but gener-
ally silent, — ^the repressed indignation of the habitual
frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the
deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of
thought and suffering, all combined to make the ap-
pearance of tlie man remarkable, and to describe to
the beholden^ at once his true character. No one ever

244 '^^^ ^^^ CHRONICLE OF BARSCT.

on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man,
or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.

"You are very pmictual, Mr. Crawley," said the
bishop. Mr. Crawley simply bowed his head, still keep-
ing his hands beneath his cloak. " Will you not take a
chair nearer to the fire ? " Mr. Crawley had not seated
himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at
the extreme end of the room, resolved that he would
not use it unless he were duly asked. Now he seated
himself, — still at a distance.

" Thank you, my lord," he said, " I am warm with
walking, and, if you please, will avoid the fire."

" You have not walked, Mr. Crawley ? "

" Yes, my lord. I have been walking."

" Not from Hogglestock ! "

Now this was a matter which Mr. Crawley certainly
did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might
be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the
palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty to
inquire how he got there. " That, my lord, is a mat-
ter of no moment," said he. " I am glad at any rate
that I have been enabled to obey your lordship's order
in coming hither on this morning."

Hitherto Mrs. Proudie had not said a word. She
stood back in the room, near the fire, — more backward
a good deal than she was accustomed to do when
clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occa-
sions she would come forward and shake hands with
them graciously, — graciously even, if proudly ; but she
had felt that she must do nothing of that kind now ;
there must be no shaking hands with a man who had
stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably
be necessary to keep Mr. Crawley at a distance, and

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 245

therefore she had remained in the background. But
Mr. Crawley seemed to be disposed to keep himself in
the background, and therefore she could speak. " I
hope your wife and children are well, Mr. Crawley ? "
she said.

"Thank you, madam, my children are well, and
Mrs. Crawley suffers no special ailment at present."

"That is much to be thankful for, Mr. Crawley."
Whether he were or were not thankful for such mer-
cies as these was no business of the bishop or of the
bishop's wife. That was between him and his God.
So he would not even bow to this civility, but sat with
his head erect, and with a great frown on his heavy
brow.

Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak,
intending to take up a position on the rug. But as
he did so Mr. Crawley rose also, and the bishop found
that he would thus lose his expected vantage. " Will
you not be seated, Mr. Crawley ? " said the bishop.
Mr. Crawley smiled, but stood his ground. Then the
bishop returned to his arm-chair, and Mr. Crawley also
sat down again. " Mr. Crawley," began the bishop,
"this matter which came the other day before the
magistrates at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate
affair. It has given me, I can assure you, the most
sincere pain."

Mr. Crawley had made up his mind how far the
bishop should be allowed to go without a rebuke. He
had told himself that it would only be natural, and
would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should
allude to the meeting of the magistrates and to the
alleged theft, and that therefore such allusion should
be endured with patient humility. And, moreover, the

246 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET

more rope he gave the bishop, the more h*kely the
bishop would be to entangle himself. It certainly was
Mr. Crawley's wish that the bishop should entangle
himself. He, therefore, replied very meekly, *' It has
been most unfortunate, my lord."

"I have felt for Mrs. Crawley very deeply," said
Mrs. Proudie. Mr. Crawley had now made up his
mind that as long as it was possible he would ignore
the presence of Mrs. Proudie altogether; and, there-
fore, he made no sign that he heard the latter remark.

"It has been most unfortunate," continued the
bishop. " I have never before had a clergyman in my
diocese placed in so distressing a position."

" That is a matter of opinion, my lord," said Mr.
Crawley, who at that moment thought of a crisis which
had come in the life of another clergyman in the dio^
cese of Barchester, with the circumstances of which he
had by chance been made acquainted.

'* Exactly," said the bishop. *' And I am expressing
my opinion." Mr. Crawley, who understood fighting,
did not think that the time had yet come for striking
a blow, so he simply bowed again. '' A most unfortu-

nate position, Mr. Crawley," continued the bishop.
" Far be it from me to express an opinion upon the
matter, which will have to come before a jury of your
countrymen. It is enough for me to know that the
magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, gentlemen to
whom no doubt you must be known, as most of them
live in your neighbourhood, have heard evidence upon

the subject "

"Most convincing evidence," said Mrs. Proudie,
interrupting her husband. Mr. Crawley's black brow
became a little blacker as he heard the word, but still

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 247

he ignored the woman. He not only did not speak,
but did not turn his eye upon her.

"They have heard the evidence on the subject,"
continued the bishop, " and they have thought it proper
to refer the decision as to your innocence or your guilt
to a jury of your countrymen."

" And they were right," said Mr. Crawley.

" Very possibly. I don't deny it. Probably," said
the bishop, whose eloquence was somewhat disturbed
by Mr. Crawley's ready acquiescence.

" Of course they were right," said Mrs. Proudie.

" At any rate it is so," said the bishop. " You are
in die position of a man amenable to the criminal laws
of the land."

" There are no criminal laws, my lord," said Mr.
Crawley ; " but to such laws as there are we are all
amenable, — ^your lordship and I alike."

" But you are so in a very particular way. I do not
wish to remind you what might be yoiu* condition now,
but for the interposition of private friends."

" I should be in the condition of a man not guilty
before the law, — guiltless, as far as the law goes, — ^but
kept in durance, not for faults of his own, but because
otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, his pres-
ence at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a
position a man's reputation is made to hang for a
while on the trust which some friends or neighbours
may have in it. I do not say that the test is a good
one."

" You would have been put in prison, Mr. Crawley,
because the magistrates were of the opinion that you
had taken Mr. Soames's cheque," said Mrs. Proudie.
On this occasion he did look at her. He turned one

it
tt

248 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

glance upon her from under his eyebrows, but he did
not speak.

" With all that I have nothing to do," said the bishop.
Nothing whatever, my lord," said Mr. Crawley.
But, bishop, I think that you have," said Mrs.
Proudie. " The judgment formed by the magistrates
as to the conduct of one of your clergymen makes it
imperative upon you to act in the matter."

" Yes, my dear, yes ; I am coming to that. What
Mrs. Proudie says is perfectly true. I have been con-
strained most unwillingly to take action in this matter.
It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the next
assizes surrender yourself at the comt-house yonder,
to be tried for this offence against the laws."

" That is true. If I be alive, my lord, and have
strength sufficient, I shall be there."

"You must be there," said Mrs. Proudie. "The
police will look to that, Mr. Crawley." She was be-
coming very angry in that the man would not answer
her a word. On this occasion again he did not even
look at her.

" Yes ; you will be there," said the bishop. " Now
that is, to say the least of it, an unseemly position for
a beneficed clergyman."

"You said before, my lord, that it was an unfort-
unate position, and the word, methinks, was better
chosen."

" It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed," said
Mrs. Proudie ; " nothing could possibly be more un-
seemly. The bishop might very properly have used a
much stronger word."

" Under these circumstances," continued the bishop,
" looking to the welfare of your parish, to the welfare

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 249

of the diocese, and allow me to say, Mr. Crawley, to
the welfare of yourself also "

"And especially to the souls of the people," said
Mrs. Proudie.

The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be im-
pressively eloquent when one is interrupted at every
best turned period, even by a supporting voice. " Yes ;
— and looking of course to the religious interests of
your people, Mr. Crawley, I came to the conclusion
that it would be expedient that you should cease your
ministrations for a while." The bishop paused, and
Mr. Crawley bowed his head. "I, therefore, sent
over to you a gentleman with whom I am well ac-
quainted, Mr. Thumble, with a letter from myself, in
which I endeavo>ired to impress upon you, without the
use of any severe /anguage, what my convictions were."

" Sevf re words ire often the best mercy," said Mrs.
Proudie. Mr. Crawley had raised his hand, with his
finger out, preparatory to answering the bishop. But
as Mrs. Proudie had spoken he dropped his finger ^d
was silent.

" Mr. Thimible brought me back your written reply,"
continued the bishop, '* by which I was grieved to find
that you were not willing to submit yourself to my
counsel in the matter."

" I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to
authority is at times a duty ; — and at times opposition
to authority is a duty also."

" Opposition to just authority cannot be a duty, Mr.
Crawley."

" Opposition to usurped authority is an imperative
duty," said Mr. Crawley.

" And who is to be the judge ? " demanded Mrs.

250 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Proudie. Then there was silence for a while ; when,
as Mr. Crawley made no reply, the lady repeated her
question. " Will you be pleased to answer my ques-
tion, sir ? Who, in such a case, is to be the judge ? "
But Mr. Crawley did not please to answer. "The
man is obstinate,'' said Mrs. Proudie.

" I had better proceed," said the bishop. " Mr.
Thumble brought me back your reply, which grieved
me greatly."

"It was contumacious and indecent," said Mrs.
Proudie.

The bishop again shook his head and looked so
unutterably miserable that a smile came across Mr.
Crawley's face. After all, others besides himself had
their troubles and trials. Mrs. Proudie saw and un-
derstood the smile, and became more angry than ever.
She drew her chair close to the table, and liegan to
fidget with her fingers among the papers. She had
never before encountered a clergyman so contuma-
cious, so indecent, so unreverend, — ^so upsetting. She
had had to do with men difficult to manage; — the
archdeacon for instance; but the archdeacon had
never been so impertinent to her as this man. She
had quarrelled once openly with a chaplain of her
husband's, a clergyman whom she herself had intro-
duced to her husband, and who had treated her yery
badly; — ^but not so badly, not with such unscrupulous
violence, as she was now encountering from this ill-
clothed beggarly man, this perpetual curate, with his
dirty broken boots, this already half-conyicted thief!
Such was her idea of Mr. Crawley's conduct to her,
while she was fingering the papers, — simply because
Mr. Crawley would not speak to her.

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 25 1

"I forget where I was," said the bishop. "Oh.
Mr. Thumble came back, and I received your letter ;
— of course I received it. And I was surprised to
learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred
at Silverbridge, you were still anxious to continue the
usual Sunday ministrations in your church."

"I was determined that I would do my duty at
Hogglestock as long as I might be left there to do it,"
said Mr. Crawley.

Duty!" said Mrs. Proudie.

Just a moment, my dear," said 4he bishop. " When
Sunday came, I had no alternative but to send Mr.
Thumble over again to Hogglestock. It occurred to
us, — ^to me and Mrs. Proudie "

" I will tell Mr. Crawley just now what has occurred
to me," said Mrs. Proudie.

"Yes; — ^just so. And I am sure that he will take
it in good part. It occurred to me, Mr. Crawley, that
your first letter might have been written in haste."

" It was written in haste, my lord ; your messenger
was waiting."

" Yes ; — ^just so. Well ; so I sent him again, hoping
that he might be accepted as a messenger of peace.
It was a most disagreeable mission for any gentleman,
Mr. Crawley."

Most disagreeable, my lord."
And you refused him permission to obey the in-
structions which I had given him ! You would not let
him read from your desk, or preach from your pulpit."

" Had I been Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie, " I
would have read from that desk and I would have
preached from that pulpit."

Mr. Crawley waited a* moment, thinking that the

it
ti

4t
tt

252 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSFT.

bishop might perhaps speak again ; but as he did not,
but sat expectant, as though he had finished his dis-
course, and now expected a reply, Mr. Crawley got up
from his seat and drew near to the table. " My lord,"
he began, " it has all been just as you have said. I
did answer your first letter in haste."

" The more shame for you," said Mrs. Proudie.

*' And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your
lordship may be so worded as to need some apology."
Of course it needs an apology," said Mrs. Proudie.
But for the matter of it, my lord, no apology can
be made, nor is any needed. I did refuse to your
messenger permission to perform the services of my
church, and if you send twenty more, I shall refuse
them all, — ^till the time may come when it will be youi
lordship's duty, in accordance with the laws of the
church, as borne out and backed by the laws of the
land, to provide during my constrained absence for the
spiritual wants of those poor people at Hogglestock."

" Poor people, indeed," said Mrs. Proudie. " Poor
wretches!"

" And, my lord, it may be, that it shall soon be your
lordship's duty to take due and legal steps for depriv-
ing me of my benefice at Hogglestock; — ^nay, proba-
bly, for silencing me altogether as to the exercise of my
sacred profession! "

" Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken
from you," said Mrs. Proudie. The bishop was look-
ing with all his eyes up at the great forehead and great
eyebrows of the man, and was so fascinated by the
power that was exercised over him by the other man's
strength that he hardly now noticed his wife.

" It may well be so," continued Mr. Crawley. " The

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 253

circumstances are strong against me ; and, though your
lordship has altogether misunderstood the nature of the
duty performed by the magistrates in sending my case
for trial, — although, as it seems to me, you have come
to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very
theory of our laws "

''Sir!" said Mrs. Proudie.

" Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury may
discover me to have been guilty of theft."

Of course the jury will do so," said Mrs. Proudie.
Should such verdict be given, then, my lord, your
interference will be legal, proper, and necessary. And
you will find that, even if it be within my power to
oppose obstacles to your lordship's authority, I will
oppose no such obstacle. There is, I believe, no ap-
peal in criminal cases."

" None at all," said Mrs. Proudie. " There is no
appeal against your bishop. You should have learned
that before."

" But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold
my own at Hogglestock as you hold your own here at
Barchester. Nor have you more power to turn me
out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I have to
turn you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt
me, my lord, your lordship's ecclesiastical court is open
to you. Try it there."

" You defy us, then ? " said Mrs. Proudie.

" My lord, I grant your authority as bishop to be
great, but even a bishop can only act as the law allows
him."

God forbid that I should do more," said the bishop.
Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall
back upon your own head," said Mrs. Proudie.

254 "I^HE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Peace, womaiij" Mr. Crawley said, addressing her
at last. The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing
the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped
rather in admiration than in anger. He had already
begun to perceive that Mr. Crawley was a man who
had better be left to take care of the souls at Hoggle-
stock, at any rate till the trial should come on.

" Woman 1 " said Mrs, Proudie, rising to her feet as
though she really intended some personal encounter.

" Madam," said Mr. Crawley, " you should not inter-
fere in these matters. You simply debase your hus-
band's high office. The distaff were more fitting for
you. My lord, good-morning." And before either of
them could speak again, he was out of the room, and
through the hall, and beyond the gate, and standing
beneath the towers of the cathedral. Yes, he had, he
thought, crushed the bishop. He had succeeded in
crumpling the bishop up within the clutch of his fist.

He started in a spirit of triumph to walk back on
his road towards Hogglestock. He did not think of
the long distance before him for the first hour of his
journey. He had had his victory, and the remem-
brance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to
his sinews, and he went stalking along the road with
rapid strides, muttering to himself from time to time as
he went along some word about Mrs. Proudie and her
distaff. Mr. Thumble would not, he thought, come to
him again, — not, at any rate, till the assizes were draw-
ing near. And he had resolved what he would do
then. When the dav of his trial was near, he would
himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision
might be made for his church, in the event of the ver-
dict going against him. His friend, Dean Arabin, was

THE BISHOP QF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED. 255

to be home before that time) and the idea had occurred
to him of asking the dean to see to this. But the
other would be the more independent course, and the
better. And there was a matter as to which he was
not altogether well pleased with the dean, although he
was so conscious of his own peculiarities as to know
that he could hardly trust himself for a judgment.
But, at any rate, he would apply to the bishop, — to the
bishop whom he had just left prostrate in his palace, —
when the time of his trial should be close at hand.

Full -of such thoughts as these he went along almost
gaily, nor felt the fatigue of the road till he had covered
the first five miles out of Barchester. It was nearly
four o'clock, and the thick gloom of the winter even-
ing was making itself felt. And then he began to be
fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left
his home in the morning, and he now pulled a crust
out of his pocket and leaned against a gate as he
crunched it. There were still ten miles before him, and
he knew that such an addition to the work he had
already done would task him very severely. Farmer
Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framley
Mill till five, and he had got time to reach Framley
Mill by that time. But he had said that he would not
return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his sus-
picion that his wife and farmer Mangle between them
had cozened him. No ; he would persevere and walk,
— walk, though he should drop upon the road. He
was now nearer fifty than forty years of age, and hard-
ships as well as time had told upon him. He knew
that though his strength was good for the commence-
ment of a hard day's work, it would not hold out for
him as it used to do. He knew that the last four miles

2$6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

in the dark night would be very sad with him. But
still he persevered, endeavouring, as he went, to cherish
himself with the remembrance of his triumph.

He passed the turning going down to Framley with
courage, but when he came to the further turning, by
which the cart would return from Framley to the Hog-
glestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for
farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the
mill, waiting in expectation that Mr. Crawley might
come to him. But the poor traveller paused here
barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling
through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against
the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness,
almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his
remaining strength would serve to carry him home.
He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife
before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to
his own door.

" Oh, mamma, here is papa! "

" But where is the cart ? I did not hear the wheels,"
said Mrs. Crawley.

" Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wife
took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to
look him in the face. " He has walked all the way,
and he is ill," said Jane.

" No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let
me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I
shall recover myself." Then Mrs. Crawley, from some
secret hoard, got him a small • modicum of spirits, and
gave him meat and tea, and he was docile ; and, obey-
ing her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed.

" I do not think the bishop will send for me again,"
he said, as she tucked the clothes around him.

CHAPTER XIX.

"WHERE DID IT COME FROM?"

When Christmas morning came no emissary from
the bishop appeared at Hogglestock to interfere with
the ordinary performance of the day's services. " I
think we need fear no further disturbance," Mr. Craw-
ley said to his wife, — and there was no further dis-
turbance.

On the day after his walk from Framley to Barches-
ter, and from Barchester back to Hogglestock, Mr.
Crawley had risen not much the worse for his labour,
and had gradually given to his wife a full account of
what had taken place. " A poor weak man," he said,
speaking of the bishop. " A poor weak creature, and
much to be pitied."

I have always heard that she is a violent woman."
Very violent, and very ignorant ; and most intru-
sive withal."

" And you did not answer her a word ? "
" At last my forbearance with her broke down, and
I bade her mind her distaff."

What ; — ^really ? Did you say those words to her ? "
Nay ; as for my exact words I cannot remember
them. I was thinking more of the words which it
might be fitting that I should answer the bishop. But
I certainly told her that she had better mind her dis-
taff."

VOL. I. — 17 257

258 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. .

" And how did she behave then ? "

" I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken,
and I had replied ; and why should I tarry to behold
the woman's violence ? I had told him that he was
wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to
usurped authority. There was nothing to keep me
longer, and so I went without much ceremony of leave-
taking. There had been little ceremony of greeting on
their part, and there was less in the making of adieux
on mine. They had told me that I was a thief "

" No, Josiah, — surely not so ? They did not use
that very word ? "

" I say they did ; — they did use the very word. But
stop. I am wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave
pardon for having done so. If my memory serve
me, no expression so harsh escaped from the bishop's
mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than
once that the action taken by the magistrates was tan-
tamount to a conviction, and that I must be guilty
because they had decided that there was evidence suf-
ficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my
lord's ignorance of the administration of the laws of
his country. He was very ignorant, — ^puzzle-pated, as
you may call it, — led by the nose by his wife, weak as
water, timid, and vacillating. But he did not wish, I
think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudie who told
me to my face that I was a — thief."

" May she be punished for the cruel word ! " said
Mrs. Crawley. " May the remembrance that she has
spoken it come, some day, heavily upon her heart! "

" ' Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord,* "
answered Mr. Crawley. "We may safely leave all
that alone, and rid our minds of such wishes, if it be

"WHERE DID IT COME FROM?" 259

possible. It is well, I think, that violent offences, when
committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn
the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be
suitable in these days, when the hands of so many are
raised to strike. But the return blow should be given
only while the smart remains. She hurt me then ; but
what is it to me now, that she called me a thief to my
face ? Do I not know that, all the country round, men
and women are calling me the same behind my back ? "

" No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say that
the thing is very strange, — so strange that it requires
a trial ; but no one thinks you have taken that which
was not your own."

" I think I did. I myself think I took that which
was not my own. My poor head suffers so ; — so many
grievous thoughts distract me, that I am like a child,
and know not what I do." As he spoke thus he put
both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though
in anxious thought, — ^as though he were striving to
bring his mind to bear with accuracy upon past events.

" It could not have been mine, and yet " Then

he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech.

" And yet ? " — said his wife, encouraging him to
proceed. If she could only learn the real truth, she
thought that she might perhaps yet save him, with
assistance from their friends.

" When I said that I had gotten it from that man I
must have been mad."

" From which man, love ? "

" From the man Soames, — ^he who accuses me. And
yet, as the Lord hears me, I thought so then. The
truth is, that there are times when I am not — sane. I
am not a thief, — not before God ; but I am — mad at

26o THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

times." These last words he spoke very slowly, in
a whisper, — without any excitement, — ^indeed with a
composure which was horrible to witness. And what
he said was the more terrible because she was so well
convinced of the truth of his words. Of course he
was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that.
As he himself had expressed it, he was no thief before
God, however the money might have come into his
possession. That there were times when his reason,
once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be
trusted to guide him right, she had gradually come to
know with fear and trembling. But he himself had
never before hinted his own consciousness of this ca-
lamity. Indeed, he had been so unwilling to speak of
himself and of his own state, that she had been unable
even to ask him a question about the money, — ^lest he
should suspect that she suspected him. Now he was
speaking, — but speaking with such heart-rending sad-
ness that she could hardly urge him to go on.

" You havo sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us
may be," she aid, " and that has been the cause."

'* There are different kinds of sickness. There is
sickness of the body, and sickness of the heart, and
sickness of the spirit ; — ^and then there is sickness of
the mind, the worst of all."

" With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first."

" With me, Mary, it has been all of them,— every
one! My spirit is broken, and my mind has not been
able to keep its even tenour amidst the ruins. But I
will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if
God helps me, I will prevail." Then he took up his hat
and cloak, and went forth among the lanes ; and on
this occasion his wife was glad that he should go alone.

"WHERE DID IT COME FROM?" 26 1

This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and
Mrs. Crawley during those days said nothing more to
her husband on the subject which he had so unexpect-
edly discussed. She asked him no questions about the
money, or as to the possibihty of his exercising his
memory, nor did she counsel him to plead that the
false excuses given by him for his possession of the
cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to which
sorrow had in those days subjected his memory and
his intellect. But the matter had always been on her
mind. Might it not be her paramoimt duty to do
something of this at the present moment ? Might it
not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend
on what she might now learn from him ? It was clear
to her that he was brighter in spirit since his encounter
with the Proudies than he had ever been since the
accusation had been first made against him. And she
knew well that his present mood would not be of long
continuance. He would fall again int6 his moody
silent ways, and then the chance of learning aught from
him would be past, and, perhaps, for eieer.

He performed the Christmas services with nothing
of special despondency in his tone or manner, and his
wife thought that she had never hf ard him give the
sacrament with more impressive .dignity. After the
service he stood awhile at the churchyard gate, and
exchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with
such of the families of the farmers as had stayed for
the Lord's Supper.

" I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter
six, — so I did," said farmer Mangle.

" I kept the road, and walked the whole way," said
Mr. Crawley. '' I think I told you that I should not

262 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET,

return to the mill. But I am not the less obliged by
your great kindness."

" Say nowt o' that," said the farmer. " No doubt I
had business at the mill, — ^lots to do at the mill." Nor
did he think that the fib he was telling was at all in-
compatible with the Holy Sacrament in which he had
just taken a part.

The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a
repast that did much honour to the season, but it was
a better dinner than the inhabitants of that house
usually saw on the board before them. There was
roast-pork, and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As
Mrs. Crawley with her own hand put the meat upon the
table, and then, as was her custom in their house, pro-
ceeded to cut it up, she looked at her husband's face
to see whether he was scrutinising the food with pain-
ful eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at
once than that she should be made to tell it, in answer
to a question. Everything on the table, except the
bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from Fram-
ley Court. Pork had been sent instead of beef, be-
cause people in the country, when they kill their pigs,
do sometimes give each other pork, — ^but do not ex-
change joints of beef, when they slay their oxen. All
this was understood by Mrs. Crawley, but she almost
wished that beef had been sent, because beef would
have attracted less attention. He said, however, noth-
ing as to the meat ; but when his wife proposed to him
that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. " The
bare food," said he, " is bitter enough, coming as it
does ; but that would choke me." She did not press
it, but eat one herself, as otherwise her girl would have
been forced also to refuse the dainty.

WHERE DID IT COME FROM?" 263

That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she re-
solved to ask him some further questions. " You will
have a lawyer, Josiah, — will you not ? " she said.

" Why should I have a lawyer ? "

" Because he will know what questions to ask, and
how questions on the other side should be answered."

" I have no questions to ask, and there is only one
way in which questions should be answered. I have
no money to pay a lawyer."

"But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your
honour and our very life depend upon it "

" Depend on what ? "

" On your acquittal."

" I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it
in the face at once. Lawyer or no lawyer, they will
say that I took the money. Were I upon the jury,
trying the case myself, knowing all that I know now,"
— ^and as he said this he struck forth with his hand
into the air, — "I think that I should say so myself.
A lawyer will do no good. It is here. It is here."
And again he put his hands up to his head.

So far she had been successful. At this moment it
had in truth been her object to induce him to speak of
his own memory, and not of the aid that a lawyer
might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been
brought in to introduce the subject.

" But, Josiah "

" WeU ? "

It was very hard for her to speak. She could not
bear to torment him by any allusion to his own defi-
ciencies. She could not endure to make him think that
she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect or
thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and

r»

264 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

that he should know that she worshipped him. But if
a word might save him! " Josiah, where did it come
from ? "

" Yes," said he ; " yes ; that is the question. Where
did it come from ? " — and he turned sharp upon her,
looking at her with all the power of his eyes. " It is
because I cannot tell you where it came from that I
ought to be, — either in Bedlam as a madman, or in the
county gaol as a thief." The words were so dreadful
to her that she could not utter at the moment another
syllable. " How is a man, — ^to think himself — fit — ^for
a man's work, when he cannot answer his wife such
a plain question as that?" Then he paused again.
" They should take me to Bedlam at once, — at once,
— at once. That would not disgrace the children as
the gaol will do."

Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that
evening.

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT MR, WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

It had been suggested to Mr. Robarts, the parson
of Framley, that he should endeavour to induce his
old acquaintance, Mr. Crawely, to employ a lawyer to
defend him at his trial, and Mr. Robarts had not for-
gotten the commission which he had undertaken. But
there were difficulties in the matter of which he was
well aware. In the first place Mr. Crawley was a man
whom it had not at any time been easy to advise on
matters private to himself ; and, in the next place, this
was a matter on which it was very hard to speak to
the man implicated, let him be who he would. Mr.
Robarts had come round to the generally accepted
idea that Mr. Crawley had obtained possession of the
cheque illegally, — acquitting his friend in his own
mind of theft, simply by supposing that he was wool-
gathering when the cheque came in his way. But in
speaking to Mr. Crawley, it would be necessary, — so
he thought, — to pretend a conviction that Mr. Crawley
was as innocent in fact as in intention.

He had almost made up his mind to dash at the

subject when he met Mr. Crawley walking through

Framley to Barchester, but he had abstained, chiefly

because Mr. Crawley had been too quick for him, and

had got away. After that he resolved that it would be

almost useless for him to go to work unless he should

265

266 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

be provided with a lawyer ready and willing to under-
take the task ; and as he was not so provided at pres-
ent, he made up his mind that he would go into Silver-
bridge and see Mr. Walker, the attorney there. Mr.
Walker always advised everybody in those parts about
everything, and would be sure to know what would
be the proper thing to be done in this case. So Mr.
Robarts got into his gig, and droye himself into Silver-
bridge. He drove at once to Mr. Walker's office, and
on arriving there found that the attorney was not at
that moment within. But Mr. Winthrop was within.
Would Mr. Robarts see Mr. Winthrop ? Now, seeing
Mr. Winthrop was a very different thing from seeing
Mr. Walker, although the two gentiemen were part-
ners. But still Mr. Robarts said that he would see Mr.
Winthrop. Perhaps Mr. Walker might return while he
was there.

" Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Robarts ? **
asked Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Robarts said that he had
wished to see Mr. Walker about that poor fellow Craw-
ley. " Ah, yes ; very sad case! So much sadder being
a clergyman, Mr. Robarts. We are really quite sorry
for him ; — ^we are indeed. We would n't have touched
the case ourselves if we could have helped ourselves.
We would n't indeed. But we are obliged to take all
that business here. At any rate he 'U get nothing but
fair usage from us."

" I am sure of that. You don't know whether he
has employed any lawyer as yet to defend him ? "

" I can't say. We don't know, you know. I should
say he had, — probably some Barchester attorney.
Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester are very good
people, — ^very good people indeed ; — for that sort of

WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 267

business I mean, Mr. Robarts. I don't suppose they
have much county property in their hands."

Mr. Robarts knew that Mr. Winthrop was a fool
and that he could get no useful advice from him. So
he suggested that he would take his gig down to the
inn, and call again before long. " You '11 find that
Walker knows no more than I do about it," said Mr.
Winthrop, '* but of course he '11 be glad to see you if
he happens to come in." So Mr. Robarts went to the
inn, put up his horse, and then, as he sauntered back
up the street, met Mr. Walker coming out of the pri-
vate door of his house.

" I 've been at home all the morning," he said, " but
I 've had a stiff job of work on hand, and told them
to say in the office that I was not in. Seen Winthrop,
have you ? I don't suppose he did know that I was
here. The clerks often know more than the partners.
About Mr. Crawley is it ? Come into my dining-room,
Mr. Robarts, where we shall be alone. Yes ; — it is a
bad case ; a very bad case. The pity is that anybody
should ever have said anything about it. Lord bless
me, if I 'd been Soames I 'd have let him have the
twenty pounds. Lord Lufton would never have al-
lowed Soames to lose it,"

" But Soames wanted to find out the truth."

" Yes ; — ^that was just it. Soames could n't bear to
think that he should be left in the dark, and then,
when the poor man said that Soames had paid the
cheque to him in the way of business, — ^it was not
odd that Soames's back should have been up, was it ?
But, Mr. Robarts, I should have thought a deal about
it before I should have brought such a man as Mr.
Crawley before a bench of magistrates on that charge."

268 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

But between you and me, Mr. Walker, did he steal
the money ? "

" Well, Mr. Robarts, you know how I 'm placed."
" Mr. Crawley is my friend, and of course I want
to assist him. I was under a great obligation to Mr.
Crawley once, and I wish to befriend him, whether he
took the money or not. But I could act so much
better if I felt siu-e one way or the other."
" If you ask me, I think he did take it."
"What!— stole it?"

" I think he knew it was not his own when he took
it. You see I don't think he meant to use it when he
took it. He perhaps had some queer idea that Soames
had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that the
money was fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque
by him till he was absolutely badgered out of his life
by the butcher up the street there. That was about
the long and the short of it, Mr. Robarts."

I suppose so. And now what had he better do ? "

Well; if^ you ask me He is in very bad

health, is n't he ? "

" No ; I should say not. He walked to Barchester
and back the other day."

" Did he ? But he *s very queer, is n't he ? "
" Very odd-mannered indeed."
And does and says all manner of odd things ? "
I think you 'd find the bishop would say so after
that interview."

" Well ; if it would do any good, you might have
the bishop examined."

Examined for what, Mr. Walker ? "
If you could show, you know, that Crawley has
got a bee in his bonnet; that the mens sana is not

it
t(

it
<t

WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 369

there, in short ; — I think you might manage to have
the trial postponed."

" But then somebody must take charge of his living."
" You parsons could manage that among you ; — ^you
and the dean and the archdeacon. The archdeacon
has always got half-a-dozen curates about somewhere.
And then, — ^after the assizes, Mr. Crawley might come
to his senses ; and I think, — ^mind, it *s only an idea, —
but I think the committal might be quashed. It would
have been temporary insanity, and, — ^though mind, I
don't give my word for it, — I think he might go on
and keep his living. I think so, Mr. Robarts."
" That has never occurred to me."
" No ; — I dare say not. You see the difficulty is this.
He 's so stiff-necked, — ^will do nothing himself. Well,
that will do for one proof of temporary insanity. The
real truth is, Mr. Robarts, he is as mad as a hatter."
Upon my word I Ve often thought so."
And you would n*t mind saying so in evidence, —
would you ? Well, you see, there is no helping such a
man in any other way. He won't even employ a law-
yer to defend him."

" That was what I had come to you about."
" I 'm told he won't. Now a man must be mad who
won't employ a lawyer when he wants one. You see,
the point we should gain would be this, — ^if we tried to
get him through as being a little touched in the upper
story, — whatever we could do for him, we could do
against his own will. The more he opposed us the
stronger our case would be. He would swear he was
not mad at all, and we should say that that was the
greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of
course I mean you. I must not appear in it."

270 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

4i
tl

I wish you could, Mr. Walker."
Of course I can't ; but that won't make any differ-
ence.'

" I suppose he must have a lawyer ? "

" Yes, he must have a lawyer ; — or rather his friends
must."

" And who should employ him, ostensibly ? "

" Ah ; — there 's the difficulty. His wife would n't
do it, I suppose ? She could n't do him a better turn."

" He would never forgive her. And she would
never consent to act against him."

" Could you interfere ? "

" If necessary, I will ; — ^but I hardly know him well
enough."

" Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts ?
He must have somebody belonging to him," said Mr.
Walker.

Then it occurred to Mr. Robarts that Dean Arabin
would be the proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin
and Mr. Crawley had been intimate friends in early
life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than did any
man, at least in those parts. All this Mr. Robarts
explained to Mr. Walker, and Mr. Walker agreed with
him that the services of Dean Arabin should if possi-
ble be obtained. Mr. Robarts would at once write to
Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circum-
stances of the case. "The worst of it is, he will
hardly be home in time," said Mr. Walker. " Perhaps
he would come a little sooner if you were to press it ? "

" But we could act in his name in his absence, I
suppose ? — of com*se with his authority ? "

" I wish he could be here a month before the assizes,
Mr. Robarts. It would be better."

WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 27 X

" And in the mean time shall I say anything to Mr.
Crawley, myself, about employing a lawyer ? "

"I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like
enough he may, and abuses you, that will help us in
one way. If he should consent, and perhaps he may,
that would help us in the other way. I 'm told he 's
been over and upset the whole coach at the palace."

" I should n*t think the bishop got much out of him,"
said the parson.

" I don't like Crawley the less for speaking his mind
free to the bishop," said the attorney, laughing. "And
he '11 speak it free to you too, Mr. Robarts."

" He won't break any of my bones. Tell me, Mr.
Walker, what lawyer shall I name to him ? "

" You can't have a better man than Mr. Mason, up
the street there."

Winthrop proposed Borleys at Barchester."
No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock are capital
people to push a fellow through on a charge of horse-
stealing, or to squeeze a man for a little money ; but
they are not the people for Mr. Crawley in such a case
as this. Mason is a better man; and then Mason
and I know each other." In saying which Mr. Walker
winked.

There was then a discussion between them whether
Mr. Robarts should go at once to Mr. Mason ; but it
was decided at last that he should see Mr. Crawley
and also write to the dean before he did so. The dean
might wish to employ his own lawyer, and if so the
double expense should be avoided. " Always remember,
Mr. Robarts, that when you go into an attorney's office
door, you will have to pay for it, first or last. In here,
you see, the dingy old mahogany, bare as it is, makes

27 2 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

you safe. Or else it 's the salt-cellar, which will not
allow itself to be polluted by six-and-eightpenny con-
siderations. But there is the other kind of tax to be
paid. You must go up and see Mrs. Walker, or you
won't have her help in this matter."

Mr. Walker returned to his work, either to some
private den within his house, or to his office, and
Mr. Robarts was taken upstairs to the drawing-room.
There he found Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and
Miss Anne Prettyman, who had just looked in, full of
the story of Mr. Crawley's walk to Barchester. Mr.
Thumble had seen one of Dr. Tempest's curates, and
had told the whole story, — ^he, Mr. Thumble, having
heard Mrs. Proudie's version of what had occurred,
and having, of course, drawn his own deductions from
her premises. And it seemed that Mr. Crawley had
been watched as he passed through the close out of
Barchester. A minor canon had seen him, and had
declared that he was going at the rate of a hunt,
swinging his arms on high and speaking very loud,
though, — as the minor canon said with regret, — the
words were hardly audible. But there had been no
doubt as to the man. Mr. Crawley's old hat, and short
rusty cloak, and dirty boots, had been duly observed
and chronicled by the minor canon ; and Mr. Thiunble
had been enabled to put together a not altogether false
picture of what had occurred. As soon as the greet-
ings between Mr. Robarts and the ladies had been
made. Miss Anne Prettyman broke out again, just
where she had left off when Mr. Robarts came in.
" They say that Mrs. Proudie declared that she will
have him sent to Botany Bay ! "

" Luckily Mrs. Proudie won't have much to do in

WHAT MR. WALKER TttOUGHt AfiOUT IT. 2J3

the matter," said Miss Walker, who tanged herself, as
to church matters, in ranks altogether opposed to those
commanded by Mrs. Proudie.

" She will have nothing to do with it, my dear," said
Mrs. Walker ; " and I dare say Mrs. Proudie was not
foolish enough to say anything of the kind."

" Mamma, she would be fool enough to say any-
thing. Would she not, Mr. Robarts ? "

" You forget. Miss Walker, that Mts. Proudie is in
authority over me."

" So she is, for the matter of that," said the young
lady ; " but I know very well what you all think of
her, and say of her too, at Framley. Your friend,
Lady Lufton, loves her dearly. I wish I could have
been hidden behind a curtain in the palace, to hear
what Mr. Crawley said to her."

Mr. Smillie declares," said Miss Anne Prettyman,

that the bishop has been ill ever since. Mr. Smillie
went over to his mother's at Barchester for Christmas,
and took part of the cathedral duty, and we had Mr.
Spooner over here in his place. So Mr. Smillie of
course heard all about it. Only fancy poor Mr.
Crawley walking all the way from Hogglestock to
Barchester and back ; — and I am told he hardly had
a shoe to his foot! Is it not a shame, Mr. Robarts ? "

" I don't think it was quite so bad as you say, Miss
Prettyman ; but, upon the whole, I do think it is a
shame. But what can we do ? "

" I suppose there are tithes at Hogglestock. Why
are they not given up to the church, as they ought to
be?"

" My dear Miss Prettyman, that is a very large sub-
ject, and I am afraid it cannot be settled in time to re«

VOL. I. — 18

it
it

274 THE LAST t:HRONICLE OF BARSET.

lieve our poor friend from his distress." Then Mr.
Robarts escaped from the ladies in Mr. Walker's
house, who, as it seemed to him, were touching upon
dangerous ground, and went back to the yard of the
George Inn for his gig, — the George and Vulture, it
was properly called, and was the house in which the
magistrates had sat when they committed Mr. Crawley
for trial.

"Footed it every inch of the way, blowed if he
did n't," the ostler was saying to a gentleman's groom,
whom Mr. Robarts recognised to be the servant of
his friend, Major Grantly ; and Mr. Robarts knew that
they also were talking about Mr. Crawley. Everybody
in the county was talking about Mr. Crawley. At
home, at Framley, there was no other subject of dis-
course. Lady Lufton, the dowager, was full of it,
being firmly convinced that Mr. Crawley was inno-
cent, because the bishop was supposed to regard him
as guilty. There had been a family conclave held at
Framley Court over that basket of provisions which
had been sent for the Christmas cheer of the Hoggler
stock parsonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady
Luftons and Mrs. Robarts, having special views of
their own. How the pork had been substituted for
the beef by old Lady Lufton, young Lady Lufton
thinking that after all the beef would be less dangerous,
and how a small turkey had been rashly suggested by
Mrs. Robarts, and how certain small articles had been
inserted in the bottom of the basket which Mrs. Craw-
ley had never shown to her husband, need not here be
told at length. But Mr. Robarts, as he heard the two
grooms talking about Mr. Crawley, began to feel that
Mr. Crawley had achieved at le^ast celebrity.

WHAT MR. WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 275

The groom touched his hat as Mr. Robarts walked
up. " Has the major returned home yet ? " Mr.
Robarts asked. The groom said that his master was
still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to Plum-
stead to fetch the major and Miss Edith in a day or
two. Then Mr. Robarts got into his gig, and as he
drove out of the yard he heard the words of the men
as they returned to the same subject. " Footed it all
the way," said one. "And yet he 's a gen'leman, too,"
said the other. Mr. Robarts thought of this as he
drove on, intending to call at Hogglestock on that
very day on his way home. It was undoubtedly the
fact that Mr. Crawley was recognised to be a gentle-
man by all who knew him, high or low, rich or poor,
by those who thought well of him and by those who
thought ill. These grooms who had been telling each
other that this parson, who was to be tried as a thief,
had been constrained to walk from Hogglestock to
Barchester and back, because he could not afford to
travel in any other way, and that his boots were
cracked and his clothes ragged, had still known him to
be a gentleman! Nobody doubted it; not even they
who thought he had stolen the money. Mr. Robarts
himself was certain of it, and told himself that he knew
it by evidences which his own education made clear to
him. But how was it that the grooms knew it ? For
my part I think that there are no better judges of the
article than the grooms.

Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Rob-
arts found himself at Mr. Crawley's gate at Hoggle-
stock.

CHAPTER XXI.

MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY.

Mr. Robarts was not altogether easy in his mind as
he approached Mr. Crawley's house. He was aware
that the task before him was a very difficult one, and
he had not confidence in himself, — that he was exactly
the man fitted for the performance of such a task. He
was a little afraid of Mr. Crawley, acknowledging tac-
itly to himself that the man had a power of ascendancy
with which he would hardly be able to cope success-
fully. In old days he had once been rebuked by Mr.
Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke; and
though there was no touch of rancour in his heart on
this account, no slightest remaining venom, — ^but rather
increased respect and friendship, — still he was unable
to overcome the remembrance of the scene in which
the perpetual curate of Hogglestock had undoubtedly
had the mastery of him. So, when two dogs have
fought and one has conquered, the conquered dog will
always show an unconscious submission to the con-
queror.

He hailed a boy on the road as he drew near to the
house, knowing that he would find no one at the par-
sonage to hold his horse for him, and was thus able
without delay to walk through the garden and knock
at the door. " Papa was not at home," Jane said.

276

MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 277

" Papa was at the school. But papa could certainly
be summoned. She herself would nm across to the
school if Mr. Robarts would co^le in." So Mr. Rob-
arts entered, and found Mrs. Crawley in the sitting*
room. Mr. Crawley would be in directly, she said.
And then, hurrying on to the subject with confused
haste, in order that a word or two might be spoken
before her husband came back, she expressed her
thanks and his for the good things which had been
sent to them at Christmastide.

" It 's old Lady Lufton's doings," said Mr. Robarts,
trying to laugh the matter over.

" I knew that it came from Framley, Mr. Robarts,
and I know how good you all are there. I have not
written to thank Lady Luf ton. I thought it better not
to write. You sister will understand why, if no one else
does. But you will tell them from me, I am sure, that
it was, as they intended, a comfort to us. Your sister
knows too much of us for me to suppose that our great
poverty can be secret from her. And, as far as I am
concerned, I do not now much care who knows it."

" There is no disgrace in not being rich," said Mr.
Robarts.

" No ; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach
itself to being so poor as we are is deadened by the
actual suffering which such poverty brings with it. At
least it has become so with me. I am not ashamed to
say that I am very grateful for what you all have done
for us at Framley. But you must not say anything to
him about that."

Of course I will not, Mrs. Crawley."
His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suf-
fers more from the natural disinclination which we all

278 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

have to receiviDg alms. Are you going to speak to him
about this a&iir of the — cheque, Mr. Robarts ? "

'' I am going to ask him to put his case into some
lawyer's hands/'

"Oh! I wish he would!"

" And wiU he not ? "

" It is very kind of you, your coming to ask him,

but '*

Has he so strong an objection ? "
He will tell you that he has no money to pay a
lawyer."

" But, surely, if he were convinced that it was abso-
lutely necessary for the vindication of his innocence,
he would submit to charge himself with an expense so
necessary, not only for himself, but for his family ? "

" He will say it ought not to be necessary. You
know, Mr. Robarts, that in some respects he is not like
other men. You will not let what I say of him set you
against him ? "

" Indeed, no."

'* It is most kind of you to make the attempt. He
will be here directly, and when he comes I will leave
you together."

While she. was yet speaking his step was heard along
the gravel-path, and he hurried into the room with
quick steps. " I crave your pardon, Mr. Robarts," he
said, "that I should keep you waiting." Now Mr.
Robarts had not been there ten minutes, and any such
asking of pardon was hardly necessary. And, even in
his own house, Mr. Crawley affected a mock hiunility,
as though, either through his own debasement, or be-
cause of the superior station of the other clergyman,
he were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing

MR. ROBARtS ON HIg EMBASSY. 279

with his visitor. He would not have shaken hands with
Mr. Robarts, — ^intending to indicate that he did not
presume to do so while the present accusation was
hanging over him, — ^had not the action been forced
upon him. And then there was something of a pro-
test in his manner, as though remonstrating against a
thing that was unbecoming to him. Mr. Robarts,
without analysing it, understood it all, and knew that
behind the humility there was a crushing pride, — -a
pride which, in all probability, would rise up and crush
him before he could get himself out of the room again.
It was, perhaps, after all, a question whether the man
was not served rightly by the extremities to which he
was reduced. There was something radically wrong
within him, which had put him into antagonism with
all the world, and which produced these never-dying
grievances. There were many clergymen in the country
with incomes as small as that which had fallen to the
lot of Mr. Crawley, but they managed to get on with-
out displaying their sores as Mr. Crawley displayed
his. They did not wear their old rusty cloaks with all
that ostentatious bitterness of poverty which seemed to
belong to that garment when displayed on Mr. Craw-
ley's shoulders. Such, for a moment, were Mr. Rob-
arts's thoughts, and he almost repented himself of his
present mission. But then he thought of Mrs. Craw-
ley, and remembering that her sufferings were at any
rate undeserved, determined that he would persevere.
Mrs. Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her hus-
band appeared, and Mr. Robarts found himself stand-
ing in front of his friend, who remained fixed on the
spot, with his hands folded over each other and his
neck slightly bent forward, in token also of humility.

aSo THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

I regret," he said, " that yoiir horse should be left
there, exposed to the inclemency of the weather;
but "

" The horse won't mind it a bit," saud Mr. Roberts.
" A parson's horse is like a butcher's, and knows that
he niust n't be particular about waiting in the cold."

" I never have had one myself," said Mr. Crawley.
Now Mr. Robarts had had more horses than one
before now, and had been thought by some to have
incurred greater expense than was befitting in his stable
comforts. The subject, therefore, was a sore one, and
he was worried a little. " I just wanted to say a few
words to you, Crawley," he said, "and if I am not
occupying too much of your time — — "

" My time is altogether at your disposal. Will you
be seated ? "

Then Mr. Robarts sat down, and, swinging his hat
between his legs, bethought himself how he should
begin his work. "We had the archdeacon over at
Framley the other day," he said, "Of course you
know the archdeacon ? "

" I never had the advantage of any acquaintance
with Dr. Grantly. Of course I know him well by name
and also personally, — that is, by sight."

" And by character ? "

" Nay ; I can hardly say so much as that. But I
am aware that his name stands high with many of his
order."

" Exactly ; that is what I mean. You know that his
judgment is thought more of in clerical matters than
that of any other clergyman in the county."

" By a certain party, Mr. Robarts."

MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. zSl

" Well, yes. They don't think much of him, I sup-
pose, at the palace. But that won't lower him in your
estimation."

" I by no means wish to derogate from Dr. Grantly's
high position in his own archdeaconry, — to which, as
you are aware, I am not attached, — ^nor to criticise his
conduct in any respect. It would be unbecoming in
me to do so. But I cannot accept it as a point in a
clergyman's favour, that he should be opposed to his
bishop."

Now this was too much for Mr. Robarts, After all
that he had heard of the visit paid by Mr. Crawley to
the palace,— of the venom displayed by Mrs. Proudie
on that occasion, and of the absolute want of subordi-
nation to episcopal authority which Mr. Crawley him-
self was supposed to have shown, — Mr. Robarts did
feel it hard that his friend the archdeacon should be
snubbed in this way because he was deficient in rever-
ence for his bishop! "I thought, Crawley," he said,
"that you yourself were inclined to dispute orders
coming to you from the palace. The world at least
says as much concerning you."

" What the world says of me I have learned to dis-
regard very much, Mr. Robarts. But I hope that I
shall never disobey the authority of the church when
properly and legally exercised."

" I hope with all my heart you never will ; nor I
either. And the archdeacon, who knows, to the
breadth of a hair, what a bishop ought to do and what
he ought not, and what he may do and what he may
not, will, I should say, be the last man in England to
sin in that way."

282 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Very probably. I am far from contradicting you
there. Pray understand, Mr. Robarts, that I bring no
accusation against the archdeacon. Why should I ? "

" I did n't mean to discuss him at all."

" Nor did I, Mr. Robarts."

" I only mentioned his name, because, as I said, he
was over with us the other day at Framley, and we
were all talking about your affair."

" My affair! " said Mr. Crawley. And then came a
frown upon his brow, and a gleam of fire into his eyes,
which effectually banished that look of extreme humil-
ity which he had assumed. " And may I ask why the
archdeacon was discussing — ^my affair ? "

Simply from the kindness which he bears to you."
I am grateful for the archdeacon's kindness, as a
man is bound to be for any kindness, whether dis-
played wisely or unwisely. But it seems to me that
my affair, as you call it, Mr. Robarts, is of that nature
that they who wish well to me will better further their
wishes by silence than by any discussion."

"Then I cannot agree with you." Mr. Crawley
shrugged his shoulders, opened his hands a little and
then closed them, and bowed his head. He could not
have declared more clearly by any words that he dif-
fered altogether from Mr. Robarts, and that as the
subject was one so peculiarly his own he had a right
to expect that his opinion should be allowed to prevail
against that of any other person. " If you come to that,
you know, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped ? "

" That vain tongues cannot be stopped, I am well
aware. I do not expect that people's tongues should
be stopped. I am not saying what men will do, but
what good wishes should dictate."

MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 283

" Well, perhaps you '11 hear me out for a minute."
Mr. Crawley again bowed his head. "Whether we
were wise or unwise, we were discussing this affair."

" Whether I stole Mr. Soames's money ? "

** No ; nobody supposed for a moment you had
stolen it."

"I cannot understand how they should suppose
anything else, knowing, as they do, that the magis-
trates have committed me for the theft. This took
place at Framley, you say, and probably in Lord Luf-
ton's presence."

" Exactly."

" And Lord Lufton was chairman at the sitting of
the magistrates at which I was committed. How can
it be that he should think otherwise ? "

"I am sure he has not an idea that you were
guilty. Nor yet has Dr. Thome, who was also one
of the magistrates. I don't suppose one of them then
thought so."

" Then their action, to say the least of it, was very
strange,"

" It was all because you had nobody to manage it
for you. I thoroughly believe that if you had placed
the matter in the hands of a good lawyer, you would
never have heard a word more about it. That seems
to be the opinion of every body I speak to on the
subject."

" Then in this country a man is to be punished or
not, according to his abihty to fee a lawyer! "

'* I am not talking about punishment."

"And presuming an innocent man to have the
ability and not the will to do so, he is to be punished,
to be ruined root and branch, self and family, charac-

384 THS LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

ter and pocket, simply because, knowing his own inno-
cence, he does not choose to depend on the merce-
nary skill of a man whose trade he abhors for the estab-
lishment of that which should be clear as the sun at
noon-day! You say I am innocent, and yet you tell
me I am to be condemned as a guilty man, have my
gown taken from me, be torn from my wife and chfl-
dren, be disgraced before the eyes of all men, and be
made a byword and a thing horrible to be mentioned,
because I will not fee an attorney to fee another man
to come and lie on my behalf, to browbeat witnesses,
to make false appeals, and perhaps shed false tears in
defending me. You have come to me asking me to
do this, if I understand you, telling me that the arch*
deacon would so advise me ? "

"That is my object." Mr. Crawley, as he had
spoken, had in his vehemence risen from his seat, and
Mr. Robarts was also standing.

" Then tell the archdeacon," said Mr. Crawley, " that
I will have none of his advice. I will have no one
there paid by me to obstruct the course of justice or to
hoodwink a jury. I have been in courts of law, and
know what is the work for which these gentlemen are
hired. I will have none of it, and I will thank you to
tell the archdeacon so, with my respectful acknowledg-
ments of his consideration and condescension* I say
nothing as to my own innocence, or my own guilt. But
I do say that if I am dragged before that tribunal, an
innocent man, and am falsely declared to be guilty,
because I lack money to bribe a lawyer to speak for
me, then the laws of this country deserve but little
of that reverence which we are accustomed to pay to
them. And if I be guilty "

MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 285

*^ Nobody supposes you to be guilty."

" And if I be guilty," continued Mr. Crawley, alto-
gether ignoring the interruption, except by the repeti-
tion of his words, and a slight raising of his voice, " I
will not add to my guilt by hiring any one to prove a
falsehood or to disprove a truth."

I *m sorry that you should say so, Mr. Crawley."
I speak according to what light I have, Mr. Rob-
arts ; and if I have been over- warm with you, — ^and I
am conscious that I have been in fault in that direc-
tion, — I must pray you to remember that I am some-
what hardly tried. My sorrows and troubles are so
great that they rise against me and disturb me, and
drive me on, — ^whither I would not be driven."

" But, my friend, is not that just the reason why you
should trust in this matter to some one who can be
more calm than yourself ? "

"I cannot trust to any one, — ^in a matter of con-
science. To do as you would have me is to me wrong.
Shall I do wrong because I am unhappy ? "

" You should cease to think it wrong when so ad-
vised by persons you can trust."

" I can trust no one with my own conscience ;— not
even the archdeacon, great as he is."

The archdeacon has meant only well to you."
I will presume so. I will believe so. I do think
so. Tell the archdeacon from me that I humbly thank
him ; — ^that, in a matter of church question, I might
probably submit my judgment to his, even though he
might have no authority over me, knowing as I do that
in such matters his experience has been great. Tell
him also, that though I would fain that this unfortu-
nate affair might burden the tongue of none among

286 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

my neighbours, — at least till I shall have stood before
the judge to receive the verdict of the jury, and, if
needful, his lordship's sentence, — ^still I am convinced
that in what he has spoken, as also in what he has
done, he has not yielded to the idleness of gossip, but
has exercised his judgment with intended kindness."

" He has certainly intended to do you a service ;
and as for its not being talked about, that is out of the
question."

" And for yourself, Mr. Robarts, whom I have ever
regarded as a friend since circumstances brought me
into yoiu: neighbourhood, — ^for you, whose sister I love
tenderly in memory of past kindness, though now she
is removed so far above my sphere as to make it unfit
that I should call her my friend "

"She does not think so at all."

" For yourself, as I was saying, pray believe me that
though from the roughness of my manner, being now
unused to social intercourse, I seem to be ungracious
and forbidding, I am grateful and mindful, and that in
the tablets of my heart I have written you down as
one in whom I could trust, — ^were it given to me to
trust in men and women." Then he turned round
with his face to the wall and his back to his visitor,
and so remained till Mr. Robarts had left him. " At
any rate I wish you well through your trouble," said
Robarts; and as he spoke he found that his own
words were nearly choked by a sob that was rising in
his throat.

He went away without another word and got out to
his gig without seeing Mrs. Crawley. During one pe-
riod of the interview he had been very angry with the
man,- — so angry as to make him ahnost declare to him-

MR. ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY. 287

self that he would take no more trouble on his behalf.
Then he had been brought to acknowledge that Mr.
Walker was right, and that Crawley was certainly mad.
He was so mad, so far removed from the dominion of
sound sense, that no jury could say that he was guilty
and that he ought to be punished for his guilt. And,
as he so resolved, he could not but ask himself the
question, whether the charge of the parish ought to be
left in the hands of such a man ? But at last, just be-
fore he went, these feelings and these convictions gave
way to pity, and he remembered simply the troubles
which seemed to have been heaped on the head of this
poor victim to misfortune. As he drove home he
resolved that there was nothing left for him to do but
to write to the dean. It was known to all who knew
them both, that the dean and Mr. Crawley had lived
together on the closest intimacy at college, and that that
friendship had been maintained through life ; — ^though,
from the peculiarity of Mr. Crawley's character, the
two had not been much together of late years. Seeing
how things were going now, and hearing how pitiful
was the plight in which Mr. Crawley was placed, the
dean would, no doubt, feel it to be his duty to hasten
his return to England. He was believed to be at this
moment in Jerusalem, and it would be long before a
letter could reach him ; but there still wanted three
months to the assizes, and his return might be probably
effected before the end of February.

" I never was so distressed in my life," Mark Rob-
arts said to his wife.

And you think you have done no good ? "
Only this, that I have convinced myself that the
poor man is not responsible for what he does, and

aSS THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSBT.

that for her sake, aa well as for his own, some person
nhould be enabled to interfere for his protection."
Tiien he told Mrs. Robarts what Mr. Walker had said ;
aUo the message which Mr. Crawley had sent to the
archdeacon. But they both agreed that that message
need not be sent on any further.

CHAPTER XXII.

MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME.

Mrs. Thorne had spoken very plainly in the advice
which she had given to Major Grantly. " If I were
you, I 'd be at AUington before twelve o'clock to-mor-
row." That had been Mrs. Thome's advice; and
though Major Grantly had no idea of making the
journey so rapidly as the lady had proposed, still he
thought that he would make it before long, and follow
the advice in spirit if not to the letter. Mrs. Thorne
had asked him if it was fair that the girl should be
punished because of the father's fault ; and the idea
had been sweet to him that the infliction or non-inflic-
tion of such punishment should be in his hands. " You
go and ask her," Mrs. Thome had said. Well ; — ^he
would go and ask her. If it should turn out at last
that he had married the daughter of a thief, and that
he was disinherited for doing so, — an arrangement of
circumstances which he had to teach himself to regard
as very probable, — ^he would not love Grace the less
on that account, or allow himself for one moment to
repent what he had done. As he thought of all this
he became somewhat in love with a small income, and
imagined to himself what honours would be done to
him by the Mrs. Thomes of the county when they

should come to know in what way he had sacrificed
VOL. I. — 19 289

290 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

himself to his love. Yes ; — they woidd go and live at
Pau. He thought Pau would do. He would have
enough of income for that; — and Edith would get
lessons cheaply, and would learn to talk French fluently.
He certainly would do it. He would go down to
AUington, and ask Grace to be his wife ; and bid her
understand that if she loved him she could not be justi-
fied in refusing him by the circimistances of her father's
position.

But he must go to Plumstead before he could go to
Allington. He was engaged to spend his Christmas
there, and must go now at once. There was not time
for the journey to Allington before he was due at
Plumstead. And, moreover, though he could not bring
himself to resolve that he would tell his father what he
was going to do, — " It would seem as though I were
asking his leave! " he said to himself, — he thought that
he would make a clean breast of it to his mother. It
made him sad to think that he should cut the rope
which fastened his own boat among the other boats in
the home harbour at Plumstead, and that he should go
out all alone into strange waters, — turned adrift alto-
gether, as it were, from the Grantly fleet. If he could
only get the promise of his mother's sympathy for
Grace it would be something. He understood, — ^no
one better than he, — the tendency of all his family to
an uprising in the world, which tendency was almost
as strong in his mother as in his father. And he had
been by no means without a similar ambition himself,
though with him the ambition had been only fitful, not
enduring. He had a brother, a clergyman, a busy,
stirring, eloquent London preacher, who got churches
built, and was heard of far and wide as a rising man,

MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 29 1

who had married a certain Lady Anne, the daughter
of an early and who was ah^ady mentioned as a candi-
date for high places. How his sister was the wife of
a marquis, and a leader in the fashionable world, the
reader already knows. The archdeacon himself was
a rich man, so powerful that he could afford to look
down upon a bishop ; and Mrs. Grantly, though there
was left about her something of an old softness of
nature, a touch of the former life which had been hers
before the stream of her days had run gold, yet she,
too, had taken kindly to wealth and high standing, and
was by no means one of those who construe literally
that passage of Scripture which tells us of the camel
and the needle's eye. Oiur Henry Grantly, our major,
knew himself to be his mother's favourite child, — ^knew
himself to have become so since something of coolness
had grown up between her and her august daughter.
The augustness of the daughter had done much to
reproduce the old freshness of which I have spoken in
the mother's heart, and had specially endeared to her
the son who, of all her children, was the least subject
to the family failing. The clergyman, Charles Grantiy,
— ^he who had married the Lady Anne, — ^was his father's
darling in these days. The old archdeacon would go
up to London and be quite happy in his son's house.
He met there the men whom he loved to meet, and
heard the talk which he loved to hear. It was very
fine having the Marquis of Hsirtletop for a son-in-law,
but he had never cared to be much at Lady Hartle-
top's house. Indeed, the archdeacon cared to be in no
house in which those around him were supposed to be
bigger than himself. Such was the family fleet from
out of which Henry Grantly was now proposing to sail

293 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

alone with his little boat, — ^taking Grace Crawley with
him at the helm. '' My father is a just man at the
bottom," he said to himself, " and though he may not
forgive me, he will not punish Edith."

But there was still left one of the family, — ^not a
Grantly, indeed, but one so nearly allied to them as to
have his boat moored in the same harbour, — ^who, as
the major well knew, would thoroughly sympathise
with him. This was old Mr. Harding, his mother's
father, — the father of his mother and of his aunt Mrs.
Arabin, — whose home was now at the deanery. He
was also to be at Plumstead during this Christmas, and
he at any rate would give a ready assent to such a
marriages as that which the major was proposing for
himself. But then poor old Mr. Harding had been
thoroughly deficient in that ambition which had served
to aggrandise the family into which his daughter had
married. He was a poor old man, who, in spite of
good friends, — for the late bishop of the diocese had
been his dearest friend, — ^had never risen high in his
profession, and had fallen even from the moderate alti-
tude which he had attained. But he was a man whom
all loved who knew him; and it was much to the
credit of his son-in-law, the archdeacon, that, with all
his tendencies to love rising suns, he had ever been true
to Mr. Harding.

Major Grantly took his daughter with him, and on
his arrival at Plumstead she of course was the first ob-
ject of attention. Mrs. Grantly declared that she had
grown immensely. The archdeacon complimented her
red cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was as healthy
a place as any in the county, while Mr. Harding,
Edith's great-grandfather, drew slowly from his pocket

MAJOR GRANTLV AT HOME. 293

sundry treasures with which he had come prepared for
the delight of the little girl. Charles Grantly and Lady
Anne had no children, and the heir of all the Hartle-
tops was too august to have been trusted to the em-
braces of his mother's grandfather. Edith, therefore,
was all that he had in that generation, and of Edith
he was prepared to be as indulgent as he had been, in
their time, of his grandchildren the Grantlys, and still
was of his grandchildren the Arabins, and had b^n
before that of his own daughters. " She 's more like
Eleanor than any one else," said the old man in a
plaintive tone. Now Eleanor was Mrs. Arabin, the
dean's wife, and was at this time, — if I were to say
over forty I do not think I should be uncharitable.
No one else saw the special likeness, but no one else
remembered, as Mr. Harding did, what Eleanor had
been when she was three years old.

Aunt Nelly is in France," said the child.
Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in France, and I
wish she were at home. Aunt Nelly has been away a
long time."

" I suppose she '11 stay till the dean picks her up on
his way home ? " said Mrs. Grantly.

" So she says in her letters. I heard from her yes-
terday, and I brought the letter, as I thought you 'd
like to see it." Mrs. Grantly took the letter and read
it, while her father still played with the child. The
archdeacon and the major were standing together on
the rug discussing thett3hooting at Chaldicotes, as to
which the archdeacon had a strong opinion. " I 'm
quite siure that a man with a place like that does more
good by preserving than by leaving it alone. The
better head of game he has the richer the county will

394 I'HE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

be generally. It is just the same with pheasants as it
is with sheep and bullocks. A pheasant does n't cost
more than he 's worth any more than a barn-door fowl.
Besides, a man who preserves is always respected by
the poachers, and the man who does n't is not."

" There *s something in that, sir, certainly," said the
major.

" More tfean you think for, perhaps. Look at poor
Sowerby, who went on there for years without a shil-
ling. How he was respected, because he lived as
the people around him expected a gentleman to live.
Thome will have a bad time of it if he tries to change
things.**

" Only think,*' exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, " when El-
eanor wrote she had not heard of that affair of poor
Mr. Crawley's ! **

"Does she say anything about him?" asked the
major.

" I *11 read what she says. ' I see in Galignani that
a clergyman in Barsetshire has been committed for
theft. Pray tell me who it is. Not the bishop, I
hope, for the credit of the diocese ? * "
I wish it were," said the archdeacon.
For shame, my dear," said his wife.
No shame at all. If we are to have a thief among
us, I *d sooner find him in a bad man than a good
one. Besides, we should have a change at the palace,
which would be a great thing."

'* But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard
nothing of it ? " said Mrs. Grantly.

" It 's odd that you should not have mentioned it
yourself."

** I did not, certainly; nor you, papa, I siq^MJse?"

cc
<c

MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. ^95

Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken
of it, and then they calculated that perhaps she might
not have received any letter from her husband written
since the news had reached him. " Besides, why should
he have mentioned it ? " said the major. " He only
knows as yet of the inquiry about the cheque, and can
have heard nothing of what was done by the magis-
trates."

" Still it seems so odd that Eleanor should not have
known of it, seeing that we have been talking of noth-
ing else for the last week," said Mrs. Grantly.

For two days the major said not a word of Grace
Crawley to any one. Nothing could be more court-
eous and complaisant than was his father's conduct to
him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to be
done. For himself there was no trouble which would
not be taken. His hunting, and his shooting, and his
fishing seemed to have become matters of paramount
consideration to his father. And then the archdeacon
became very confidential about money matters, — ^not
offering anything to his son, which, as he well knew,
would have been seen through as palpable bribery and
corruption, — ^but telling him of this little scheme and
of that, of one investment and of another; — ^how he
contemplated bu3dng a small property here, and spend-
ing a few thousands on building there. " Of course it
is all for you and your brother," said the archdeacon,
with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually
by fathers on such occasions ; '' and I like you to know
what it is that I am doing. I told Charles about the
London property the last time I was up," said the arch-
deacon, " and there shall be no difference between him
and you, if all goes well." This was very good-natured

290 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

on the archdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary,
as Charles was the eldest son ; but the major under-
stood it perfectly. " There shall be an elysium opened
to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing of
which you spoke when last here." The archdeacon
uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude
to Grace Crawley; but the words were as good as
spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the
major could not have imderstood them more clearly.
He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium
opened before him. He had had his moment of anx-
iety, whether his father would or would not make an
elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was
now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley,
and you shall share alike with your brother. Disgrace
yourself by manying her, and your brother shall have
everything. There was the choice, and it was still
open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he
never to go near Grace Crawley again no one would
blame him, unless it were Miss Prettyman or Mrs.
Thome. "Fill your glass, Henry," said the arch-
deacon. "You 'd better, I tell you, for there is no
more of it left." Then the major filled his glass and
sipped the wine, and swore to himself that he would
go down to Allington at once. What! Did his father
think to bribe him by giving him '20 port ? He would
certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his
mother to-morrow morning, or certainly on the next
day, what he was going to do. " Pity it should be all
gone ; is n*t it, sir ? " said the archdeacon to his father-
in-law. " It has lasted my time," said Mr. Harding,
" and I *m very much obliged to it. Dear, dear ; how
well I remember your father giving the order for itJ

MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 297

There were two pipes, and somebody said it was a
heady wine. 'If the prebendaries and rectors can't
drink it/ said your father, ' the curates will' "

" Curates indeed! " said the archdeacon. " It 's too
good for a bishop, unless one of the right sort."

" Your father used to say those things, but with Jiim
the poorer the guest the better the cheer. When he
had a few clergymen round him, how he loved to make
them happy!"

" Never talked shop to them, did he ? " said the arch-
deacon.

" Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious,
when one thinks of it! Do you remember how we
used to play cards ? "

"Every night regularly; — ^threepenny points, and
sixpence on the rubber," said the archdeacon.

" Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I re-
member when the clergymen did more of the dancing
in Barchester than all the other young men in the city
put together."

" And a good set they were ; — gentlemen every one
of them. It 's well that some of them don't dance
now ; — that is, for the girls' sake."

I sometimes sit and wonder," said Mr. Harding,
whether your father's spirit ever comes back to the
old house and sees the changes, — ^and if so whether he
approves them."

Approves them!" said the archdeacon.
Well ; — ^yes. I think he would, upon the whole.
I 'm sure of this ; he would not disapprove, because
the new ways are changed from his ways. He never
thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear,
I am not sure that it is n't all for the best. I some*

29S THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

times think that some of us were very idle when we
were young. I was, I know."

" I worked hard enough," said the archdeacon,

" Ah, yes ; you. But most of us took it very easily.
Dear, dear! When I think of it, and see how hard
they work now, and remember what pleasant times we
used to have, — I don't feel sometimes quite sure."

''I believe the work was done a great deal better
than it is now," said the archdeacon. " There was n't
so much fuss, but there was more reahty. And men
were men, and clergymen were gentlemen."

*' Yes ; — ^they were gentlemen."

" Such a creatiu-e as that old woman at the palace
could n't have held his head up among us. That 's
what has come from Reform. A reformed House
of Commons makes Lord Brock prime-minister, and
then your prime-minister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop!
Well ; — ^it will last my time, I suppose."

" It has lasted mine,— like the wine," said Mr. Hard-
ing.

" There 's one glass more, and you shall have it, sir."
Then Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820
port, and they went into the drawing-room.

On the next morning after breakfast the major went
out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested
to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley,
and had offered him the use of everything the arch-
deaconry possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns,
and carriages. But the major would have none of
these things. He would go out and walk by himself.
" He 's not thinking of her ; is he ? " said the arch-
deacon to his wife, in a whisper. " I don't know. I
think he is," said Mrs. Grantly. " It will be so much

MAJOR GRANTLV AT HOME. ^99

the better for Charles, if he does," said the archdeacon
grimly ; and the look of his face as he spoke was by
no means pleasant. "You will do nothing unjust,
archdeacon," said his wife. " I will do as I like with
my own," said he. And then he also went out and
took a walk by himself.

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port,
and no recollection of old days. They were rather
dull, the three of them, as they sat together, — and
dulness is alwajrs more unendurable than sadness. Old
Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was
cross. " Henry," he said, " you have n't a word to
throw to a dog."

" I Ve got rather a headache this evening, sir," said
the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine,
one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father-
in-law gently, and went off. ** Is there anything the
matter?" asked the old man. "Nothing particular.
My father seems to be a little cross." "Ah! I Ve
been to sleep and I ought n*t. It 's my fault. We *11
go in and smooth him down." But the archdeacon
would n't be smoothed down on that occasion. He
would let his son see the. difference between a father
pleased and a father displeased,— or rather between a
father pleasant and a father unpleasant. " He has n't
said anything to you, has he ? " said the archdeacon
that night to his wife. " Not a word ; — as yet." " If
he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think
him a cur," said the archdeacon. " But he did tell
you," said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite
son ; " and, for the matter of that, he has courag?
enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say
tiiat he has been driven to it by your threats,"

300 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BASSET.

''Thai *% sheer nonsense/' said the archdeacon.

" It 's not nonsense at all/' said Mrs. Grantly.

'' llien I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say
nothing ? '' said the archdeacon ; and as he spoke he
banged the door between his dressing-room and Mrs.
Grantly's bedroom.

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly
spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had
gone into Barchester, having in vain attempted to in-
duce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding wa3 in the
library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dream-
ing of old days and old friends, and perhaps, some-
times, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly was alone in a
small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when
suddenly her son entered the room. " Mother," he
said, '' I think it better to tell you that I am going to
AUington."

" To AUington, Henry ? " She knew very well who
was at AUington, and what must be the business which
would take him there.

** Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are
circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see
her without delay.**

" What circumstances, Henry ? **

** As I intend to ask her to be my wife I think it
best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that
she should not think that I am deterred by her father's
position,**

'* But would it not be reasonable that yon should be
deterred by her father's position ? "

'' No, I think not I think it would be dishonest as
well as ungenerous, I cannot bring myself to brook
such delay. Of course I am alive to the nusfofftnne

MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 30I

which has fallen upon her, — ^upon her and me, too,
should she ever become my wife. But it is one of
those burdens which a man should have shoulders
broad enough to bear."

" Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were
engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you,
as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not
require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our
sakes, and especially for Edith's."

" It will do Edith no harm ; and, mother, if you alone
were concerned, I think you would feel that it would
not hurt you."

" I was not thinking of myself, Henry."

" As for my father, the very threats which he has
used make me conscious that I have only to measure the
price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance."

" But that may not be the worst. Think how you
are situated. You are the younger son of a man who
will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if
he thinks fit to do so."

" I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If
you will tell him that from me, it is all that I will ask
you to do."

" But you will see him yourself ? "

" No, mother ; not till I have been to Allington.
Then I will see him again or not, just as he pleases.
I shall stop at Guestwick, and will write to you a line
from thence. If my father decides on doing anything,
let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I
should get rid of the lease of my house."

"Oh, Henry!"

" I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and
I believe I am right. Whether I am right or wrong,

303 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

I shall do it. I will not ask you now for any promise
or pledge ; but should Miss Crawley become my wife,
I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as
your daughter." Having so spoken, he kissed his
mother, and was about to leave the room ; but she
held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes were
full of tears. " Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am
sorry indeed."

** Not me, not me, not me," she said.

** For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not
threatened me I should have told him also. As he
has done so, you must teU him. But give him my
kindest love."

" Oh, Henry ; you will be ruined. You will, indeed.
Can you not wait ? Remonber how headstrong your
father is, and yet how good ;-^-and how he loves you!
Think of all that he has done for you. When did he
refuse you anything P "

'* He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey
him. He should not ask me."

** You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right
to expect that you will not bring disgrace iq^on the
family."

'* Nor will I ; — except such disgrace as may attend
upon poverty. Good-bye, mother. I wish yoa could
have said one kind word to me."

** Have I not said a kind word?**

•* Not as yet, mothtt."

** I would not for worids speak miknidly to yoo. If
it were not for tout f atb^ I would bid yoa bfing whom
you pleased home to me as your wife ; and I would
be as a nsodicr to her. And if this girl shoald become
your wife **

MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME. 303

if
u

It shall not be my fault if she does not."
I will try to love her — some day."

Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory,
as requested by his mother. His own dog-cart and
his servant were at Plumstead, and he drove himself
home to Cosby Lodge.

When the archdeacon returned the news was told
him at once. " Henry has gone to Allington to pro-
pose to Miss Crawley," said Mrs. Grantly.

" Gone, — without speaking to mel "

" He left his love, and said that it was useless his
remaining, as he knew he rfiould only offend you."

" He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it,"
said the archdeacon. And then there was not another
word said about Grace Crawley on that occasion.

CHAPTER XXIII.

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION.

The ladies at the Small House at AUington break-
fasted always at nine, — a liberal nine ; and the post-
man whose duty it was to deliver letters in that village
at half -past eight, being also liberal in his ideas as to
time, always arrived punctually in the middle of break-
fast, so that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily
hers, just before their second cup of tea, as though the
letters formed a part of the morning meal. Jane, the
maid-servant, always brought them in, and handed them
to Mrs. Dale, — ^for Lily had in these days come to
preside at the breakfast-table ; and then there would
be an examination of the outsides before the envelopes
were violated, and as each knew pretty well all the
circumstances of the correspondence of the other, there
would be some guessing as to what this or that epistle
might contain ; and after that a reading out loud of
passages, and not infrequently of the entire letter. But
now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace
Crawley was at the Small House, and therefore the
common practice was somewhat in abeyance.

On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought
in the letters as usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale.
Lily was at the time occupied with the teapot, but still
she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full as to

304

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 305

be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety,
" Mamma, I 'm sure I see two there for me," she said*
" Only one for you, Lily," said Mrs. Dale. Lily in-
stantly knew from the tone of the voice that some let-
ter had come, which by the very aspect of the hand-
writing had disturbed her mother. " There is one for
you, my dear," said Mrs, Dale, throwing a letter across
the table to Grace. " And one for you, Lily, from
Bell. The others are for me."

And whom are yours from, mamma ? " asked Lily.

One is from Mrs. Jones ; the other, I think, is a let-
ter on business." Then Lily said nothing further, but
she observed that her mother only opened one of her
letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient ;
— ^not by nature, I think, but by exercise and practice.
She had once, in her life, been too much in a hurry ;
and having then burned herself grievously, she now
feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her
mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire,
hemming diligently at certain articles of clothing which
were intended for use in the Hogglestock parsonage.
The two girls were making a set of new shirts for Mr.
Crawley. " But I know he will ask where they come
from," said Grace ; " and then mamma will be scolded."
" But I hope he 11 wear them," said Lily. " Sooner or
later he will," said Grace ; " because mamma manages
generally to have her way at last." Then they went
on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at
Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily's mind
was intent upon her mother's letter.

Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing

when they walked out after lunch, for Lily was very

patient. But during the walk Mrs. Dale became aware
▼OL. I.— 20

306 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched
each other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly
allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the
voice, to pass unobserved. To Mrs. Dale it was every-
thing in the world that her daughter should be, if not
happy at heart, at least tranquil ; and to Lily, who
knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and
of her alone, her mother was the only human divinity
now worthy of adoration. But nothing was said about
the letter during the walk.

When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it
was their habit to sit up for a while without candles,
talking, till the evening had in truth set in and the un-
mistakable and enforced idleness of remaining without
candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demand-
ing patience of herself all the while, was thinking what
she would do, or rather what she would say, about the
letter. That nothing could be done or said in the
presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, nor
would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She
would be very patient ; but she would, at last, ask her
mother about the letter.

And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got
up and left the room. Lily still waited for a few min-
utes, and, in order that her patience might be thor-
oughly exercised, she said a word or two about her
sister Bell; how the eldest child's whooping-cough
was nearly well, and how the baby was doing wonder-
ful things with its first tooth. But as Mrs. Dale had
already seen BelFs letter, all this was not intensely
interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked
her question. " Mamma, from whom was that other
letter which you got this morning ? "

••

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 307

Our Story will perhaps be best told by communicat-
ing the letter to the reader before it was discussed with
Lily. The letter was as follows : —

** General Committee Office, January, 1S6 — ."
I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened
the letter till she had found herself in the sohtude of
her own bedroom ; and that then, before doing so, she
had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes. When
she first received it she thought she knew the writer,
but was not sure. Then she had glanced at the im-
pression over the fastening, and had known at once
from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr.
Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble
into her house, who had jilted her daughter ; the only
man in the world whom she had a right to regard as a
positive enemy to herself. She had no doubt about
it, as she tore the envelope open ; and yet, when the
address given made her quite sure, a new feeling of
shivering came upon her, and she asked herself whether
it might not be better that she should send his letter
back to him without reading it. But she read it.

" Madam " (the letter began), — " You will be very
much surprised to hear from me, and I am quite aware
that I am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an
acknowledgment from you, should you be pleased to
throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your no-
tice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and
must leave it to you to reply to me or not, as you may
think fit.

" I will only refer to that episode of my life with
which you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledg-

3o8 TH£ LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSST.

ing my great fault and of assuring you that I did not
go unpunished. It would be useless for me now to
attempt to explain to you the circumstances which
led me into that difficulty which ended in so great a
blunder ; but I will ask you to beheve that my folly
was greater than my sin.

" But I will come to my point at once. You are,
no doubt, aware that I married a daughter of Lord
De Courcy, and that I was separated from my wife a
few weeks after oiur tmfortunate marriage. It is now
something over twelve months since she died at Baden-
Baden in her mother's house. I never saw her since
the day we first parted. I have not a word to say
against her. The fault was mine in marrying a woman
whom I did not love and had never loved. When I
married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your
daughter.

*' I believe I may venture to say to you that your
daughter once loved me. From the day on which I
last wrote to you that terrible letter which told you of
my fate I have never mentioned the name of Lily Dale
to human ears. It has been too sacred for my mouth,
— too sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with
which I have been blessed. I now use it for the first
time to you, in order that I may ask whether it be
possible that her old love should ever live again. Mine
has lived always, — ^has never faded for an hour, mak-
ing me miserable during the years that have passed
since I saw her, but capable of making me very happy,
if I may be allowed to see her again.

" You will understand my purpose now as well as
though I were to write pages. I have no scheme
formed in my head for seeing your daughter again.

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 309

How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware
that the chance of success must be so strong against
me ? But if you will tell me that there can be a gleam
of hope, I will obey any commands that you can put
upon me in any way that you may point out. I am
free again, — and she is free. I love her with all my
heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but
that she ^ould become my wife. Whether any of
her old Inve may still abide with her, you will know.
If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one
who, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true
to her in heart.

*^ I have the honour to be. Madam,

*' Your most obedient servant,

" Adolphus Crosbie.''

This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had received,
and as to which she had not as yet said a word to Lily,
or even made up her mind whether she would say a
word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved
each other, thorough as was the confidence between
them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been
mentioned between them oftener, perhaps, than half-a-
dozen times since the blow had been struck. Mrs.
Dale knew that their feelings about the man were al-
together different. She, herself, not only condemned
him for what he had done, believing it to be impossible
that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his
offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to
be mean beyond redemption ; — ^but she had allowed
herself actually to hate him. He had in one sense
murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could
never forgive him. But Lily, as her mother well knew,

31 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses
for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in
her own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for
his welfare and his happiness. Mrs. Dale feared that
Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she
not bound to show her this letter ? Lily was old
enough to judge for herself, — old enough, and wise
enough too. Mrs. Dale told herself half-a-score of
times that morning that she could not be justified in
keeping the letter from her daughter.

But yet she much wished that the letter had neyer
been written, and would have given very much to be
able to put it out of the way without injustice to Lily.
To her thinking it would be impossible that Lily should
be happy in marrying such a man. Such a marriage
now would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to
her daughter. A terrible injury had been done ' to
her ; but such reparation as this would, in Mrs. Dale's
eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily loved
the man ; and, loving him, how could she resist the
temptation of his offer ? " Mamma, from whom was
that letter which you got this morning ? " Lily asked.
For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained silent.
" Mamma," continued Lily, *' I think I know whom it
was from. If you tell me to ask nothing fxu*ther, of
course I will not."

" No, Lily ; I cannot tell you that."

** Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the
use of shivering on the brink ? "

" It was from Mr. Crosbie."

" I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it
And now, mamma, — am I to read it ? "

" You shall do as you please, Lily."

<<
ti

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 31I

" Then I please to read it."

" Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish
that the letter had never been written. It tells badly
for the man as I think of it. I cannot understand
how any man could have brought himself to address
either you or me, after having acted as he acted."
But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know."
Now he has written, and there is the letter, — ^if
you choose to read it."

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless,
holding it. "You think, mamma, I ought not to
read it ? "

You must judge for yourself, dearest."
And if I do not read it, what shall you do,
mamma ? "

" I shall do nothing ;— or, perhaps, I should in such
a case acknowledge it, and tell him that we have noth-?
ing more to say to him."

" That would be very stem."

" He has done that which makes sternness necessary."

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motion-
less, with the letter in her hand. " Mamma," she said,
at last, " if you tell me not to read it I will give it you
back unread. If you bid me exercise my own judg-
ment, I shall take it upstairs and read it."

" You must exercise your own judgment," said Mrs.
Dale. Then Lily got up from her chair and walked
slowly out of the room, and went to her mother's
chamber. The thoughts which passed through Mrs.
Dale's mind while her daughter was reading the letter
were very sad. She could find no comfort anywhere.
Lily, she told herself, would surely give way to this
man's renewed expressions of affection, and she, Mrs*

312 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child
to a man whom she could neither love nor respect ; —
whom, for aught she knew, she could never cease to
hate. And she could not bring herself to believe that
Lily would be happy with such a man. As for her
own life, desolate as it would be, — she cared little for
that. Mothers know that their daughters will leave
them. Even widowed mothers, mothers with but one
child left, — such a one as was this mother, — are aware
that they will be left alone, and they can bring them-
selves to welcome the sacrifice of themselves with
something of satisfaction. Mrs. Dale and Lily had,
indeed, of late become bound together especially, so
diat the mother had been justified in regarding the link
which joined them as being firmer than that by which
most daughters are bound to their mothers; — but in
all that she would have found no regret. Even now,
in these very days, she was hoping that Lily might yet
be brought to give herself to John Eames. But she
could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy
in thinking that Lily should be given to Adolphus
Crosbie.

When Mrs. Dale went upstairs to her own room
before dinner Lily was not there ; nor were they alone
together again that evening except for a moment, when
Lily, as was usual, went into her mother's room when
she was undressing. But neither of them then said a
word about the letter. Lily during dinner and through-
out the evening had borne herself well, giving no sign
of special emotion, keeping to herself entirely her ovm
thoughts about the proposition made to her. And
afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabri-
cation of Mr. Crawley's shirts, as though she had no

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 313

such letter in her pocket. And yet there was not a
moment in which she was not thinking of it. To
Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one
word. " I wonder whether it can ever come to a per-
son to be so placed that there can be no doing right,
let what will be done ; — that, do or not do, as you may,
it must be wrong ? "

" I hope you are not in such a condition," said
Grace.

" I am something near it," said Lily ; " but perhaps
if I look long enough I shall see the light."

" I hope it will be a happy light at last," said Grace,
who thought that Lily was referring only to John
£ames. '

At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing
to her mother about the letter ; and then what she said
was very little, " When must you answer Mr. Crosbie,
mamma ? "

When, my dear ? "

I mean how long may you take ? It need not be
to-day ? "

No; — certainly not to-day."
Then I will talk over it with you to-morrow. It
wants some thinking ; — does it not, mamma ? "

" It would not want much with me, Lily."

"But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as
I believe, feeling as I feel, it wants some thinking.
TTiat 's what I mean."

" I wish I could help you, my dear."

"You shall help me, — to-morrow." The morrow
came and Lily was still very patient; but she had
prepared herself, and had prepared the time also, so
that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with

314 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

her mother, and sure that she might remain alone with
her for an hour or so. " Mamma, sit there," she said;
** I will sit down here, and then I can lean against you
and be comfortable. You can hear as much of me as
that, — can't you, mamma ? " Then Mrs. Dale put her
arm over Lily's shoulder, and embraced her daughter.
" And now, mamma, we will talk about this wonderful
letter."

" I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say
about it."

"But you must have something to say about it,
mamma. You must bring yourself to have something
to say, — to have a great deal to say,"

" You know what I think as well as though I talked
for a week."

" That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be
hard with me."
Hard, Lily!"

I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me
any food,— or that you will not go on caring about me
more than anything else in the whole world ten times
over " And Lily as she spoke tightened the em-
brace of her mother's arm around her neck. " I 'm
not afraid you 'U be hard in that way. But you must
soften your heart so as to be able to mention his name
and talk about him, and tell me what I ought to do.
You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears,
and feel with my heart ; — and then, when I know that
you have done diat, I must judge with your judgment."
I wish you to use your own.''
Yes ; — ^because you won't see with my eyes and
hear with my ears. That 's what I call being hard.
Though you should feed me with blood from your

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 315

breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you
could give me also the sympathy which I demand from
you. You see, mamma, we have never allowed our-
selves to speak of this man."

" What need has there been, dearest ? "

" Only because we have been thinking of him. Out
of the full heart the mouth speaketh; — that is, the
mouth does so when the full heart is allowed to have
its own way comfortably."

" There are things which should be forgotten."

" Forgotten, mamma! "

" The memory of which should not be fostered by
much talking."

" I have never blamed you, mamma ; never, even in
my heart. I have known how good and gracious and
sweet you have been. But I have often accused my-
self of cowardice because I have not allowed his name
to cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of
forgetting such an accident as that is a farce. And as

for fostering the memory of it ! Do you think

that I have ever spent a night from that time to this
without thinking of him ? Do you imagine that I have
ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the
garden-path there, without thinking of the times when
he and I walked there together? There needs no
fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds
which will grow rank and strong though nothing be
done to foster them. There is the earth and the rain,
and that is enough for them. You cannot kill them if
you would, and they certainly will not die because you
are careful not to hoe and rake the ground."

" Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet."

"I have thought it very long; but the truth is,

3X6 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

mamma, that this non-fostering of memories, as you
call it, has not been the real cause of our silence. We
have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because we have not
thought ahke about him. Had you spoken you would
have spoken with anger, and I could not endure to
hear him abused. That has been it.''

" Partly so, Lily."

** Now you must talk of him, and you must not
abuse him. We must talk of him, because something
must be done about his letta:. Even if it be left un-
answered it cannot be so left without discussion. And
yet you must say no evil of him.''

" Am I to think that he behaved well ? "

** No, mamma ; you are not to think that ; but you
are to look upon his fault as a fault that has been
forgiven."

" It cannot be forgotten, dear."

But, mamma, when you go to heaven "

My dear!"

But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why
should I not speak of it ? You will go to heaven, and
yet I suppose you have been wicked, because we are
all very wicked. But you won't be told of your wicked-
ness there. You won't be hated there, because you
were this or that when you were here."

" I hope not, Lily ; but is n't your argument almost
profane?"

" No ; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven }v-^
as we forgive. That is the way in which we hope ^^
be forgiven, and therefore it is the way in which we
ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night,
mamma, do you ever ask yourself whedier you have
forgiven him ? "

it
it

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 317

** I forgive him as far as hmnanity can forgive. I
would do him no injury."

" But if you and I are forgiven only after that fash-
ion we shall never get to heaven." Lily paused for
some further answer from her mother, but as Mrs. Dale
was silent she allowed tliat portion of the subject to
pass as completed. " And now, mamma, what answer
do you think we ought to send to his letter ? "

" My dear, how am I to say ? You know I have
said already that if I could act on my own judgment
I would send none."

But that was said in the bitterness of gall."
Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We
shall, get on better when you have brought yourself to
speak. Do you think that you wish to see him again ? "

" I don't know, mamma. Upon the whole, I think
not."

" Then in heaven's name let me write and tell him
so."

" Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons
here to be considered,^-or rather three."

"I would not have you think of me in such a
question."

" I know you would not ; but never mind, and let
me go on. The three of us are concerned, at any rate ;
you, and he, and I. I am thinking of him now. We
have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he has
H^d the worst of it."
. . , ' And who has deserved the worst ? "

" Mamma, how can you go back in that way ? We
have agreed that that should be regarded as done and
gone. He has been very unhappy, and now we sec
what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery.

3l8 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Do I flatter myself if I allow myself to look at it in
that way ? "

" Perhaps he thinks he is offering a remedy for your
misery."

As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked
up into her mother's face. " Mamma," she said, " that
is very cruel. I did not think you could be so cruel.
How can you, who believe him to be so selfish, think
that ? "

" It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have
never supposed him to be so black that he would not
wish to make atonement for the evil he has done."

'* If I thought that, there certainly could be but one

answer."

Who can look into a man's heart and judge all the
sources of his actions ? There are mixed feelings there,
no doubt. Remorse for what he has done ; regret for
what he has lost ; — ^something, perhaps, of the purity
of love."

"Yes, something, — I hope something, — for his
sake."

" But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his
nature and do not go near him. When a man has
cheated you once, you think he will cheat you again,
and you do not deal with him. You do not look to
gather grapes from thistles, after you have found that
they are thistles."

" I still go for the roses though I have often torn my
hand with thorns in looking for them."

"But you do not pluck those that have become
cankered in the blowing."

*' Because he was once at fault, will he be cankered
always ? "

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 319

" I would not trust him."

" Now, mamma, see how different we are ; or, rather,
how different it is when one judges for oneself, or for
another. If it were simply myself, and my own future
fate in life, I would trust him with it all to-morrow
without a word. I should go to him as a gambler
goes to the gambling table, knowing that if I lost
everything I could hardly be poorer than I was before.
But I should have a better hope than the gambler is
justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty.
And when I think of him I can see a prospect of suc-
cess for the gambler. I think so well of myself that,
loving him as I do ; — ^yes, mamma, do not be uneasy ;
loving him as I do, I believe I could be a comfort to
him. I think that he might be better with me than
without me. That is, he would be so, if he could teach
himself to look back upon the past as I can do, and
to iudge of me as I can judge of him."

'' He has nothing, at least, for which to condemn
you."

"But he would have were I to marry him now.
He would condemn me because I had forgiven him.
He would condemn me because I had borne what he
had done to me, and had still loved him, — ^loved him
through it all. He would feel and know the weakness.
And there is weakness! I have been weak in not
being able to rid myself of him altogether. He would
recognise this after a while, and would despise me for
it. But he would not see what there is of devotion to
him in my being able to bear the taunts of the world
in going back to him, — and your taunts and my own
taunts. I should have to bear his also, — not spoken
aloud, but to be seen in his face, and heard in his

320 THE LAST CHRONICLE OP BARSET.

voice, — and that I could not endure. If he despised
me, and he would, that would make us both unhappy.
Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come ; tell him that
he can never come ; but, if it be possible, tell him this
tenderly." Then she got up and walked away, as
though she were going out of the room; but her
mother had caught her before the door was open.

" Lily," she said, '* if you think you can be happy
with him, he shall come."

" No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the
light ever since I read his letter, and I think 1 see it.
And now, mamma, I will make a clean breast of it
From the moment in which I heard that that poor
woman was dead, I have been fluttered. It has been
weak of me, and silly, and contemptible. But I could
not help it. I kept on asking myself whether he would
ever think of me now. Well; he has answered the
question ; and has so done it that he has forced upon
me the necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and
I believe that I shall be the better for it."

The letter which Mrs. Dale wrote to Mr. Crosbie
was as follows:— *

" Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Cros-
bie, and begs to assure him that it will not now be
possible that he should renew the relations which were
broken off, three years ago, between him and Mrs.
Dale's family."

It was very short, certainly, and it did not by any
means satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how
to say more without saying too much. The object of
her letter was to save him the trouble of a futile perse-

MISS LILY dale's RESOLUTION. 32 1

verance, and them from the annoyance of persecution ;
and this she wished to do without mentioning her
daughter's name. And she was determined that no
word should escape her in which there was any touch
of severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she
owed to Lily in return for all that Lily was prepared
to abandon. "There is my note," she said at last,
offering it to her daughter. " I did not mean to see
it," said Lily ; " and, mamma, I will not read it now.
Let it go. I know you have been good and have not
scolded him."

" I have not scolded hxai certainly," said Mrs. Dale.
And then the letter was sent.

VOL. I. — 21

CHAPTER XXIV.

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTV.

Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had in
these days risen so high in the world that people in the
west end of town, and very, respectable people too, —
people living in South Kensington, in neighbourhoods
not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome houses
round Bayswater, — ^were glad to ask him out to dinner.
Money had been left to him by an earl, and rumour
had of course magnified that money. He was a pri-
vate secretary, which is in itself a great advance on be-
ing a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly
intimate friend of an artist who had pushed himself
into high fashion during the last year or two, — one
Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich English world was
beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugar-plums, and
who seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt
sugar-plums. I don't know whether the friendship of
Conway Dalrymple had not done as much to secure
John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinner-
tables, as had either the private secretar3rship, or the
earl's money; and yet, when they had first known
each other, now only two or three years ago, Conway
Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some
chance had brought them together, and they had lived
in the same rooms for nearly two years. This arrange-

32a

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 323

ment had been broken up, and the Conway Dahymple
of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere near
Kensington Palace, where he painted portraits of young
countesses, and in which he had even painted a young
duchess. It was the peculiar merit of his pictures, —
so at least said the art-loving world, — that, though the
likeness was always good, the stiffness of the modern
portrait was never there. There was also ever some
story told in Dahymple's pictures over and above the
story of the portraitiu'e4 This countess was drawn as
a fairy with wings, that countess as a goddess with a
helmet. The thing took for a time, and Conway
Dalrymple was picking up his gilt sugar-plums With
considerable rapidity.

On a certain day he and John Earned were to dine
out together at a certain house in that Bayswater dis«
trict. It was a large mansion, if not made of stone
yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at least, all
of them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, at
least four thousand a year for its maintenance. And
its owner, Dobbs Broughton, a man Very well known
both in the City and over the grass in Northampton-
shire^ was supposed to have a good deal more than
four thousand a year. Mi^. Dobbs Brdughton, a Very
beautiful woman, who certainly was not yet thirty-five,
let her worst enemies say what they might, had been
painted by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. There
were, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each
Grace was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all
know how Graces stand sometimes ; two Graces look-
ing one way, and one the other. In this picture, Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you fuu m
the face. The same lady looked away from you, dis^

324 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

playing her left shoulder, as one side Grace, and dis-
playing her right shoulder as the other side Grace.
For this pretty toy Mr. Conway Dalrymple had picked
up a gilt sugar-plum to the tune of six hundred pounds,
and had, moreover, won the heart both of Mr. and
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. " Upon my word, Johnny,"
Dabymple had said to his friend, " he 's a deuced good
fellow, has really a good glass of claret, — which is get-
ting rarer and rarer every day, — and will mount you
for a day, whenever you please, down at Market Har-
boro*. Come and dine with them." Johnny Eames
condescended, and did go and dine with Mr. Dobbs
Broughton. I wonder whether he remembered, when
Conway Dalrymple was talking of the rarity of good
claret, how much beer the young painter used to drink
when they were out together in the country, as they
used to be occasionally, three years ago ; and how the ^
painter had then been used to complain that bitter beer
cost threepence a glass, instead of twopence, which
had hitherto been the recognised price of the article.
In those days the sugar-plums had not been gilt, and
had been much rarer.

Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the
house of Mr. Dobbs Broughton. As Dabymple lived
close to the Broughtons, Eames picked him up in a
cab. " Filthy things these cabs are," said Dalrymple,
as he got into the Hansom.

" I don't know about that," said Johnny. " They 're
pretty good, I think."

" Foul things," said Conway. " Don't you feel what
a draught comes in here because the glass is cracked?
I 'd have one of my own, only I should never know
what to do with it."

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON's DINNER-PARTY. 325

" The greatest nuisance on earth, I should think,"
said Johnny.

" If you could always have it standing ready round
the comer," said the artist, "it would be delightful.
But one would want half-a-dozen horses and two or
three men for that."

" I think the stands are the best," said Johnny.

They were a little late, — a, little later than they*
should have been had they considered that Eames was
to be introduced to his new acquaintances. But he
had already liv^d long enough before the world to be
quite at his ease in such circtunstances, and he entered
Mrs. Broughton's drawing-room with his pleasantest
smile upon his face. But as he entered he saw a sight
which made him look serious in spite of his efforts to
the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to the
Board at the General Committee Office, was standing
on the rug before the fire.

" Who will be there ? " Eames had asked of his
friend, when the suggestion to go and dine with Dobbs
Broughton had been made to him.

" Impossible to say," Conway had replied. " A cer-
tain horrible fellow of the name of Musselboro will
almost certainly be there. He always is when they
have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a sort
of partner of Broughton's in the city. He wears a lot
of chains and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate
waistcoat, which is worse ; and he does n't wash his
hands as often as he ought to do."

" An objectionable party, rather, I should say," said
Eames.

"Well, yes; Musselboro is objectionable. He *s
very good-humoured, you know, and good-looking in

326 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

a sort of way, and goes everywhere ; that is, among
people of this sort. Of course he 's not hand-and-glove
with Lord Ofsrby ; and I wish he could be made to
wash his hands. They have n't any other standing
dish, and you may meet anybody. They always have
a Member of Parliament ; they generally manage to
capture a baronet ; and I have met a Peer there. On
that august occasion Musselboro was absent."

So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked
round at once icx Mr. Musselboro. ** If I don't see
the whiskers and chain,'' he had said, '' I shall know
there 's a Peer." Mr. Musselboro was in the room,
but Eames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before be
had seen Mr. Musselboro.

There was no reason for confusion on his part in
meeting Crosbie. They had both loved Lily Dale.
Crosbie might have been successful, but for his own
fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into
contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled
with him, and had beaten him, giving him a black eye,
and in this way obtaining some mastery over him.
There was no reason why he should be ashamed of
meeting Crosbie ; and yet when he saw him, the blood
mounted all over his face, and he forgot to make any
further search for Mr. Musselboro.

''I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple f ex* bring-
ing you," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton very sweetly,
'' only he ought to have come sooner. Naughty man!
I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines
down? Miss Demolines, — Mr. Eames."

Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had
not welcomed our hero very cordially. He was be-
ginning to think that Conway Dalrymple gave himself

MRS. pOBB$ BROUGHTON'iS DI^N^R-PARTY. 39 ^

airsy apd did not sufficiently lunderstand that a man
who had horses at l^^ket Harboro' and '41 Lafitte
was at any rate as goo4 as a painter ^ho was pelted
with gilt sugar-plums for painting countesses. But he
was a man whose ill-humour never lasted long, and he
was soon pressing his wine op Johnny Eames as though
he loved him dearly.

But there wa^ yet a fe.w minutes before they went
down to dinner, an.4 Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured
to find something to say to Miss PemQlin,es, — ^which
was difficult, as he did not in the least kQOw l^iss
Demolines' li^ie oi .c(^ve]:]sation,— wa$ aw^e that his
efforJts were impeded by thought? pf Mr. Crosbie. The
man looked plder thap when he had last seen him, — so
much older that Eames was astonished. He was bald,
or becoming bald; and his whiskers were grey, or
were becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny
Eames, who was always thinking of Lily Dale, could
not now keep himself froni thinking of Adolphus Cros-
bie. He saw at a glance that the man was in moiun-
ing, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by
which to tell it ; and he knew that he was in mourning
for his wife. " I wish she might haye lived for ever,"
Johnny said to himself.

He had not yet been definitely called upon by the
entrance of the servant to offer his arm to Miss Demo-
lines, when Crosbie walked across to him from the rug
and addressed him.

" Mr. Eames," said he, " it is some time since we
met.*' And he offered his hand to Johnny.

"Yes, it is," said Johnny, accepting the proffered
salutation. " I don't know exactly how long, but ever
so long."

328 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking
hands with you," said Crosbie ; and then he retired, as
it had become his duty to wait with his arm ready for
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Having married an earPs
daughter he was selected for that honour. There was
a barrister in the room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton
ought to have known better. As she professed to be
guided in such matters by the rules laid down by the
recognised authorities, she ought to have been aware
that a man takes no rank from his wife. But she was
entitled, I think, to merciful consideration for her error.
A woman situated as was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton can-
not altogether ignore these terrible rules. She cannot
let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must
select some one for the honour of her own arm. And
amidst the intricacies of rank how is it possible for
a woman to learn and to remember everything? If
Providence would only send Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a
Peer for every dinner-party, the thing would go more
easily ; but what woman will tell me, off-hand, which
should go out of a room first, a C.B., an Admiral
of the Blue, the dean of Barchester, or the dean of
Arches ? Who is to know who was everybody's father?
How am I to remember that young Thompson's pro-
genitor was made a baronet and not a knight when he
was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs Broughton
ought to have known that Mr. Crosbie could have
gained nothing by his wife's rank, and the barrister
may be considered to have been not immoderately
severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the
silliest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met
in his life. Eames with the lovely Miss Demolines on
his arm was the last to move before the hostess. Mr.

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 329

Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with
old Lady Demob'nes. There was no doubt about Lady
Demolines, — ^as his wife had told him, because her title
marked her. Her husband had been a physician in
Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of ^ome
benefit supposed to have been done to some French
scion of royalty, — when such scions in France were
royal and not imperial. Lady Demolines' rank was
not much, certainly ; but it served to mark her, and
was beneficial.

As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of
his meeting with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a
word to his neighbour, and his neighbour had not said
a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinners quite
well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among
whom six are ladies, everything depends on your next
neighbour, and generally on the next neighbour who
specially belongs to you ; and as he took his seat he
was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next two
hours. On his other- hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the
barrister's wife, and he did not much like the look of
Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy, and good-look-
ing ; with a broad space between her eyes, and light
smooth hair ; — a, youthful British matron every inch
of her, of whom any barrister with a young family of
children might be proud. Now Miss Demolines,
though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was at
any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well-shaped
eyes, and very dark hair, which she wore tangled about
in an extraordinary manner, and she had an expressive
face, — a face made expressive by the owner's will.
Such power of expression is often attained by dint of
labour, — though it never reaches to the expression of

330 TH£ UlST CHEONICLE OF BARSfiT.

anything in particular. She ^as almost sufficiently
good-looking to be justified in considering herself to be
a beauty.

But Miss DemolineSy thpugh she had said nothing as
yet, knew her game yery well. A lady cannot begin
conversation to any good purpose in the drawing-room,
when she is seate4 and the man is standing ; — ^nor can
she know then how the table may subsequently arrange
itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted,
and the spirit rebels against the necessity of commenc-
ing a second enterprisje. Bu^t Mis$ Demolines, when
she found herself seated, arid perceived that on the
other side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married n^an,
commenced her enteiprise at once, and our friend Johp
£ame3 was immediately aware that he would have no
difficulty as to conversation.

" Don't you like winter dinner-parties ? " began Miss
Demolines. This was said just a^ Johnny was taking
his seat, and he had time to declare that he liked din-
ner-parties at all periods of the year if the dinner was
good and the people pleasant before the host had mut-
tered something which was intended to be understood
to be a grace. "But I mean especially in winter,"
continued Miss Demolines. " I don't think daylight
should eyer be admitted at a dinner-table ; and though
you may shut out the daylight^ you can't stmt out the
heat. And then there are always so many other things
to go to in May and June and July. Dinners should
be stopped by Act of Parliament for those three
months. I don't care what people do afterwards,
because we always fly away on the first of August."
That is good-natured on your part."
I 'm sure what I say would be for the good of

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON-S DINNER-PARTY. 33I

society ; — ^but at this tinue of the year a dinner is warm
and comfortable."

Very comfortable, I think."
And people get to know each other;" — in saying
which Miss Demolines looked very pleasantly up into
Johnny's face.

" There is a great deal in that," said he. " I wonder
whether you and I will get to. know each other? "

" Of course we shall ;— r-that is, if I 'm worth know-
ing."

'' There can be no doubt about that, I should say."

" Time alone can tell. But, Mr. Eames, I see that
Mr. Crosbie is a friend of yours."

" Hardly a friend."

" I know very well that men are friends when they
step up and shake hands with each other. It is the
same as when women kiss."

'* When I see women kiss, I always think that there
is deep hatred at the bottom of it."

" And there may be deep hatred between you and
Mr. Crosbie for anything I know to the contrary,'* said
Miss Demolines.

" The very deepest,^* said Johnny, pretending to look
grave.

" Ah, then I know he is your bosom friend, and that
you will tell him anything I sayl What a strange
history that was c^ his marriage ! "

" So I have heard ; — ^but he is not quite bosom friend
enough with me to have told me all the particulars.
I know that his wife is dead."

" Dead ; oh, yes ; she has been dead these two years
X should say."

Not so long as that, I should thinL"

332 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Well, — ^perhaps not. But it *s ever so long ago ;
— quite long enough for him to be married again.
Did you know her? "

I never saw her in my life."
I knew her, — ^not well indeed ; but I am intimate
with her sister. Lady Amelia Gagebee, and I have met
her there. None of that family have married what you
may call well. And now, Mr. Eames, pray look at the
menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me
a little dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare
provided. I always expect some gentleman to do that
for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, only lived with his
wife for one month."

" So I Ve been told."

"And a terrible month they had of it. I used to
hear of it. He does n*t look that sort of a man, does
he?"

" Well ; — ^no. I don*t think he does. But what sort
of man do you mean? "

" Why such a regular Bluebeard ! Of course you
know how he treated another girl before he married
Lady Alexandrina. She died of it, — with a broken
heart ; absolutely died ; and there he is, indifferent as
possible ; — and would treat me in the same way to-
morrow if I would let him."

Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss
Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the
dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his
neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. "But
you 've skipped the pit6," she said, with energy.

" Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me in-
stead. You are much more fit to do it." And she did
choose his dinner for him.

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON's DINNER-PARTY. 333

They were sitting at a round table, and in order that
the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves
properly, Mr. Musselboro was opposite to the host.
Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van Siever, the
widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She
was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quan-
tity as from the nature of the wiggeries which she wore.
She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as
to which it cannot be conceived that she would suppose
that any one would be ignorant as to their falseness.
She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting
aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes.
She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not al-
together pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed
to know Mr. Musselboro very well, for she called him
by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed,
begun life as a clerk in her husband's office.

"Why does n*t What*s-his-name have real silver
forks ? " she said to him. Now Mrs. What*s-his-name,
— Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, we will call her — ^was sitting
on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between him and
Mr. Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found
it rather hard to answer the question, more especially
as he was probably aware that other questions would
follow.

" What 's the use ? " said Mr. Musselboro. " Every-
body has these plated things now. What *s the use of
a lot of capital lying dead ? "

" Everybody does n't. I don't. Yoii know as well
as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing
goes for a great deal. Capital is n*t lying dead as long
as people know that you 've got it."

Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to

334 "^^^ ^A^ CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

reflect that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton would probably
hear his reply. "You won't find that there is any
doubt on that head in the city as to Broughton," he
said.

" I shan't ask in the city, and if I did, I should not
believe what people told me. I think there are sillier
folks in the city than anywhere else. What did he
give for that picture upstairs which the young man
painted? "

" What, Mts. Dobbs Broughton's portrait? "

" You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean
the one with the three naked women? " Mr. Mussel-
boro glanced round with one eye, arid felt sure that
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But
the old woman was determined to haVe an answer.
" How much did he give for it, Musselboro? "

" Six hundred pounds, I believe," said Mr. Mussel-
borO) looking straight before him as he answered, and
pretending to treat the subject with perfect indifference.

" Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And
yet he has n't got silver spoons. How things are
changed! Tell mei Musselboro, who was that young
man who came in with the painter? "

Mr. Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs.
Broughton. "A Mr. John Eames, Mrs. Van Siever,"
.said Mrs. Broughton, whispering across the front of
Mr. Musselboro. " He is private secretary to Lord —
Lord — Lord — I forget who. Some one of the minis-
ters, I know. And he had a great fortune left him the
other day by Lord — Lord — Lord — ^somebody else."

" All among the lords, I see," said Mrs. Van Siever.
Then Mrs. Dobbs Broughton drew herself back, re-
membering some little attack which had been made on

KRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 335

her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had had the
real lord to dine with hen

There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting
between Crosbie and Conway Dalrymple. Conway
Dalrymple had been specially brought there to sit next
to Miss Van Siever. " There 's no knowing how much
she *11 have/* said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the
warmth of her friendship. " But it 's all real. It is,
indeed. The mother is awfully rich."

"But she *s awful in another way, too," said
Dalr3rmple.

" Indeed she is^ Conway." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton
had got into the way of calliiig her young friend by his
Christian name. '* All the world calls him Conway,"
She had said to her hiisband once l^hen her husband
caught her doing so. " She is awfiil. Her husband
made the business in the city^ when things were very
different frofti what they are now, arid I can't help
having her. She has transactions of business with
Dobbs. But there *s no mistake about the money."

" She need n*t leave it to her daughter, I suppose? "

"But why should n't she? She has nbbody else.
You might offer to paint her, you know; She 'd make
an excellent picture. So much character. You come
ahd see her."

Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to
meet Miss Van Siever, saying something, however, as
to his present position being one which did not admit
of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs. Dobbs
Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that
he was altogether wrong, and that were he to forget
himself, or commit himself, or misbehave himself, there
must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. In answer

33^ THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

to which, Mr. Dahymple had said that her Grace was
surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he
had come to meet Miss Van Siever, and was seated
next to her at table.

Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps
reached her twenty-fifth year, was certainly a hand-
some young woman. She was fair and large, bearing
no likeness whatever to her mother. Her features
were regular, and her full, clear eyes had a briUiance
of their own, looking at you always steadfastly and
boldly, though very seldom pleasantly. Her mouth
would have beeii beautiful had it not been too strong
for feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect, — ^too
perfect, — ^looking like miniature walls of carved ivory.
She knew the fault of this perfection and showed her
teeth as little as she could. Her nose and chin were
finely chiselled, and her head stood well upon her
shoulders. But there was something hard about it all
which repelled you. Dahymple, when he saw her,
recoiled from her, not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes,
she was handsome, as may be a horse or a tiger ; but
there was about her nothing of feminine softness. He
could not bring himself to think of taking Clara Van
Siever as the model that was to sit before him for the
rest of his life. He certainly could make a picture of
her, as had been suggested by his friend, Mrs. Brough-
ton, but it must be as Judith with the dissevered head,
or as Jael using her hammer over the temple of Sisera.
Yes, — ^he thought she would do as Jael ; and if Mrs.
Van Siever would throw him a sugar-plum, for he
would want the sugar-plum, seeing that any other re-
sult was out of the question, — the thing might be done.
Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dahymple respect-

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 337

ing Miss Van Siever, — ^before he led her down to
dinner.

At first he found it hard to talk to her. She an-
swered him, and not with monosyllables. But she
answered him without sympathy, or apparent pleasure
in talking. Now the young artist was in the habit of
being flattered by ladies, and expected to have his small
talk made very easy for him. He liked to give himself
little airs, and was not generally disposed to labour very
hard at the task of making himself agreeable.

" Were you ever painted yet? " he asked her after they
had both been sitting silent for two or three minutes.
Was I ever — ever painted? In what way? "
I don't mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by
Madame Rachel ; but have you ever had your portrait
taken?"

" I have been photographed, — of course."

" That *s why I asked you if you had been painted,
— ^so as to make some little distinction between the
two. I am a painter by profession, and do portraits."

" So Mrs. Broughton told me."
I am not asking for a job, you know."
I am quite sure of that."

But I should have thought you would have been
sure to have sat to somebody."

" I never did. I never thought of doing so. One
does those things at the instigation of one's intimate
friends, — fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts, and the
like."

" Or husbands, perhaps, — or lovers? "

" Well, yes ; my intimate friend is my mother, and
she would never dream of such a thing. She hates
pictures."

VOL. I. — 22

33S THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

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it

It
(t

Hates pictures!"

And especially portraits. And I 'm afraid, Mr.
Dalrymple, she hates artists."

'* Good heavens; how cruel! I suppose there is
some story attached to it. There has been some fatal
hkeness, — some terrible picture, — something in her
early days?"

" Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely
the fact that her sympathies are with ugly things, rather
than with pretty things. I think she loves the mahog-
any dinner-table better than anything else in the house ;
and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, and
solid."

"And good?"
Good of its kind, certainly."
If everybody was like your mother, how would the
artists live? "

" There would be none."

"And the world, you think, would be none the
poorer? "

"I did not speak of myself. I think the world
would be very much the poorer. I am very fond of
the ancient masters, though I do not suppose that I
understand them."

"They are easier understood than the modern, I
can tell you. Perhaps you don't care for modem
pictures? "

" Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil,
you have brought it on yourself. But I do not in
truth mean anything derogatory to the painters of the
day. When tiieir pictures are old, they, — ^that is the
good ones among them, — ^will be nice also."

" Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think."

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 339

"Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all
things. The colours of new paintings are so glaring,
and the faces are so bright and self-conscious, that they
look to me when I go to the exhibition like coloured
prints in a child's new picture-book. It is the same
thing with buildings. One sees all the points, and
nothing is left to the imagination."

" I find I have come across a real critic."

" I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one ; " and
Miss Van Siever as she said this looked very savage.

" I should n't take you to be a sham in anything."

" Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself.
Who can undertake to say that he is not a sham in
anything? "

As she said this the ladies were getting up. So
Miss Van Siever also got up, and left Mr. Conway
Dalrymple to consider whether he could say or could
think of himself that he was not a sham in anything.
As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think
that he should not object to paint her portrait, even
though there might be no sugar-plum. He would cer-
tainly do it as Jael ; and he would, if he dared, insert
dimly in the background some idea of the face of the
mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of
the sacrifice. He was composing his picture while
Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself and his
bottles.

" Musselboro," he said, " I '11 come up between you
and Crosbie. Mr. Eames, though I run away from
you, the claret shall remain ; or, rather, it shall flow
backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will."
I 11 keep it moving," said Johnny.
Do ; there *s a good fellow. It *s a' nice glass of

340 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

wine, is n't it ? Old Ramsby, who keeps as good a
stock of stuff as any wine merchant in London, gave
me a hint, three or four years ago, that he 'd a lot of
tidy Bordeaux. It 's '47, you know. He had ninety
dozen, and I took it all."

" What was the figure, Broughton ? " said Crbsbie,
asking the question which he knew was expected.

"Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it
then; it 's worth a hundred and twenty now. I
would n't sell a botde of it for any money. Come,
Dalrymple, pass it round ; but fill your glass first."

" Thank you, no ; I don't like it. 1 11 drink sherry."

" Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton.

" It 's strange, is n't it ? but I don't."

"I thought you particularly told me to drink his
claret ? " said Johnny to his friend afterwards.

" So I did," said Conway ; " and wonderfully good
wine it is. But I make it a rule never to eat or drink
anything in a man's house when he praises it himself
and tells me the price of it."

" And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my
own face," said Johnny.

Before they went Johnny Eames had been specially
invited to call on Lady Demolines, and had said that
he would do so. " We live in Porchester Gardens,"
said Miss Demolines. "Upon my word, I believe
that the farther London stretches in that direction, the
farther mamma will go. She thinks the air so much
better. I know it 's a long way."

" Distance is nothing to me," said Johnny ; " I can
always set off over-night."

Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on
Mrs. Van Siever, but before he left the house he did

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 34 1

say a word or two more to his friend Mrs. Broughton
as to Clara Van Siever. " She is a fine young woman,"
he said ; " she is indeed."

" You have found it out, have you ? "

"Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that
some day she 'U murder her husband or her mother, or
startle the world by some newly-invented crime ; but
that only makes her the more interesting."

" And when you add to that all the old woman's
money," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, '* you think that
she might do ? "

"For a picture, certainly. I 'm speaking of her
simply as a model. Could we not manage it? Get
her once here without her mother knowing it, or
Broughton, or any one. I *ve got the subject, — ^Jael
and Sisera, you know. I should like to put Mussel-
boro in as Sisera, with the nail half driven in." Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton declared that the scheme was a
great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last
she pronused to think of it.

" You might as well come up and have a cigar,"
Dalrymple said, as he and his friend left Mr. Brough-
ton's house. Johnny said that he would go up and
have a cigar or two. "And now tell me what you
think of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set," said
Conway.

" Well, I '11 tell you what I think of them. I think
they stink of money, as the people say ; but I 'm not
sure that they have got any all the same."

" I should suppose he makes a large income."

"Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he
makes. A good deal of it looked to me like make-
believe. There 's no doubt about the claret, but the

342 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to
have such stuff handed round to his guests. And there
is n't the ring of real gold about the house."

" I hate the ring of the gold, as you call it," said the
artist.

" So do I, — I hate it like poison ; but if it is there,
I like it to be true. There is a sort of persons going
now, — and one meets them out, here and there, every
day of one's life, — ^who are downright Brunmiagem to
the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we
recognise them as such at the very first moment. My
honoured lord and master. Sir Raffle, is one such.
There is no mistaking him. Clap him down upon the
counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon
me, my dear Conway, if I say the same of your
excellent friend Mr. Dobbs Broughton."

" I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it.
What you mean is, that he 's not a gentleman."

" I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you,
when you come to talk of a gentleman, who is to define
the word? How do I know whether or no I 'm a
gentleman myself? When I used to be in Burton
Crescent, I was hardly a gentleman then, sitting at
the same table with Mrs. Roper and the Lupexes ; —
do you remember them, — and the lovely Amelia ? "

" I suppose you were a gentleman, then, as well as

now."

" You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with
a studio in Kensington Gardens, would not have said
so, if you had happened to come across me. I can't
define a gentleman, even in my own mind ; — but I can
define the sort of man with whom I think I can live
pleasantly."

MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY. 343

And poor Dobbs does n't come within the line ? "
N — o, not quite ; a very nice fellow, I *m quite
sure, and I am very much obliged to you for taking
me there."

" I never will take you to any house again. And
what did you think of his wife ? "

" That 's a horse of another colour altogether. A
pretty woman with such a figure as hers has got a right
to be anything she pleases. I see you are a great
favourite."

"No, I 'm not; — ^not especially. I do like her.
She wants to make up a match between me and that
Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to have gold by the
ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank
shares, and a whole mine in Cornwall, for her fortune."

" And is very handsome into the bargain."

" Yes ; she *s handsome."

" So is her mother," said Johnny. " If you take the
daughter, I 11 take the mother, and see if I can't do
you out of a mine or two. Good-night, old fellow.
I *m only joking about old Dobbs. I *11 go and dine
there again to-morrow, if you like it."

CHAPTER XXV.

IfISS MADALINA D£MOLIN£S.

"I don't think you care two straws about her,"
Conway Dahymple said to his friend John Eames, two
days after the dinner-party at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's.
The painter was at work in his studio, and the private
secretary from the Income-tax Office, who was no
doubt engaged on some special mission to the West
End on tiie part of Sir Raffle Buffle, was sitting in a
lounging-chair and smoking a cigar.

" Because I don't go about with my stockings cross-
gartered, and do that kind of business ? "

"Well, yes; because you don't do that kind of
business, more or less."

" It is n't in my line, my dear fellow. I know what
you mean, very well. I dare say, artistically speak-
ing, "

Don't be an ass, Johnny."

Well then, poetically, or romantically, if you like
that better, — I dare say that poetically or romantically
I am deficient. I eat my dinner very well, and I don't
suppose I ought to do that ; and, if you '11 believe me,
I find myself laughing sometimes."

"I never knew a man who laughed so much.
You 're always laughing."

And that, you think, is a bad sign? "

344

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MISS MADALINA PEMOLINES. 345

" I don't believe you really care about her. I think
you are aware that you have got a love-affair on hand,
and that you hang on to it rather persistently, having
in some way come to a resolution that you would be
persistent. But there is n't much heart in it. I dare
say there was once."

And that is your opinion ? "
You are just like some of those men who for years
past have been going to write a book on some new
subject. The intention has been sincere at first, and
it never altogether dies away. But the would-be
author, though he still talks of his work, knows that it
will never be executed, and is very patient under the
disappointment. All enthusiasm about the thing is
gone, but he is still known as the man who is going
to do it some day. You are the man who means to
marry Miss Dale in five, ten, or twenty years' time."

*' Now, Conway, all that is thoroughly unfair. The
would-be author talks of his would-be book to every-
body. I have never talked of Miss Dale to any one
but you, and one or two very old family friends. And
from year to year, and from month to month, I have
done all that has been in my power to win her, I
don't think I shall ever succeed, and yet I am as de-
termined about it as I was when I first began it, — or
rather much more so. If I do not marry Lily, I shall
never marry at all, and if anybody were to tell me to-
morrow that she had made up her mind to have me, I
should well-nigh go mad for joy. But I am not going
to give up all my life for love. Indeed, the less I can
bring myself to give up for it, the better I shall think
of myself. Now I '11 go away and call on ok| Lady
Demolines."

546 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" And flirt with her daughter."

" Yes ; — flirt with her daughter, if I get the oppor-
tunity. Why should n't I flirt with her daughter ? *•

" Why not, if you Kke it ? "

" I don't like it, — ^not particularly, that is ; because
the young lady is not very pretty, nor yet very graceful,
nor yet very wise."

" She is pretty after a fashion," said the artist, " and
if not wise, she is at any rate clever."

" Nevertheless, I do not like her," said John £ames.

" Then why do you go there ? "

"One has to be civil to people though they are
neither pretty nor wise. I don't mean to insinuate that
Miss Demolines is particularly bad, or indeed that she
is worse than young ladies in general. I only abused
her because there was an insinuation in what you said,
that I was going to amuse myself with Miss Demolines
in the absence of Miss Dale. The one thing has noth-
ing to do with the other thing. Nothing that I shall
say to Miss Demolines will at all militate against my
loyalty to Lily."

" All right, old fellow ; — I did n't mean to put you
on your purgation. I want you to look at that sketch.
Do you know for whom it is intended ? " Johnny took
up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinised it for a
minute or two declared that he had not the slightest
idea who was represented. "You know the subject, —
the story that is intended to be told ? " said Dalrjonple.

" Upon my word, I don't. There 's some old fellow
seems to be catching it over the head ; but it 's all so
confused I can't make much of it. The woman seems
to be uncommon angry."

" Do you ever read your Bible ? "

MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 347

"Ah, dear! not as often as I ought to do. Ah, I
see; it 's Sisera! I never could quite believe that
Story. Jael might have killed Captain Sisera in his
sleep, — for which, by-the-bye, she ought to have been
hung, and she might possibly have done it with a
hammer and a nail. But she could not have driven
it through, and staked him to the ground."

" I Ve warrant enough for putting it into a picture,
at any rate. My Jael there is intended for Miss Van
Siever."

" Miss Van Siever! Well, it is like her. Has she
sat for it ? "

" Oh, dear, no ; not yet. I mean to get her to do
so. There *s a strength about her which would make
her sit the part admirably. And I fancy she would
like to be driving a nail into a fellow's head. I think
I shall take Musselboro for a Sisera."

" You 're not in earnest ? "

" He would just do for it. But of course I shan't
ask him to sit, as my Jael would not like it. She
would not consent to operate on so base a subject.
So you really are going down to Guestwick ? "

"Yes; I start to-morrow. Good-bye, old fellow.
I *11 come and sit for Sisera if you '11 let me ; — only
Miss Van Jael shall have a blunted nail, if you please."

Then Johnny left the artist's room and walked across
from Kensington to Lady Demolines' house. As he
went he partly accused himself, and partly excused
himself, in that matter of his love for Lily Dale.
There were moments of his life in which he felt that he
would willingly die for her, — ^that life was not worth
having without her, — ^in which he went about inwardly
reproaching fortune for having treated him so cruelly.

34^ THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAR8ET.

Why should she not be his ? He half believed that she
loved him. She had almost told him so. She could
not surely still love that other man who had treated
her with such vile falsehood ? As he considered the
question in all its bearings he assured himself over and
over again that there would be now no fear of that
rival ; — and yet he had such fears, and hated Crosbie
almost as much as ever. It was a thousand pities,
certainly, that the man should have been made free
by the death of his wife. But it could hardly be that
he should seek Lily again, or that Lily, if so sought,
should even listen to him. But yet there he was, free
once more, — an odious being, whom Johnny was deter-
mined to sacrifice to his vengeance, if cause for such
sacrifice should occiu-. And thus thinking of the real
truth of his love, he endeavoured to excuse himself to
himself from that charge of vagueness and lazness
which his friend Conway Dalrymple had brought
against him. And then again he accused himself of
the same sin. If he had been positively in earnest,
with downright manly earnestness, would he have al-
lowed the thing to drag itself on with a weak imcertain
life, as it had done for the last two or three years ?
Lily Dale had been a dream to him in his boyhood ;
and he had made a reality of his dream as soon as he
had become a man. But before he had been able, as
a man, to tell his love to the girl whom he had loved
as a child, another man had intervened, and his prize
had been taken from him. Then the wretched Aactor
had thrown his treasure away, and he, John Eames,
had been content to stoop to pick it up, — was content
to do so now. But there was something which he felt
to be unmanly in the constant stooping. Dalrymple

MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 349

had told him that he was like a man who is ever writ-
ing a book and yet never writes it. He would make
another attempt to get his book written, — an attempt
into which he would throw all his strength and all his
heart. He would do his very best to make Lily his
own. But if he failed now, he would have done with
it. It seemed to him to be below his dignity as a
man to be always coveting a thing which he could not
obtain.

Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who
opened the door for him at Lady Demolines', that the
ladies were at home, and he was shown up into the
drawing-room. Here he was allowed full ten minutes
to explore the knicknacks on the table, and open the
photograph book, and examine the furniture, before
Miss Demolines made her appearance. When she did
come, her hair was tangled more marvellously even
than when he saw her at the dinner-party, and her
eyes were darker, and her cheeks thinner. "I 'm
afraid mamma won't be able to come down," said Miss
Demolines. "She will be so sorry; but she is not
quite well to-day. The wind is in the east, she says,
and when she says the wind is in the east she always
refuses to be well."

" Then I should tell her it was in the west."

" But it is in the east."

"Ah, there I can't help you, Miss Demolines. I
never know which is east, and which west ; and if I
did, I should n't know from which point the wind
blew."

" At any rate mamma can't come downstairs, and
you must excuse her. What a very nice woman
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton is." Johnny acknowledged that

Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was charming. "And Mr.
Broughton is so good-natured!" Johnny again as-
sented. " I like him of all things/' said Miss Demo-
lines. " So do I," said Johnny ; — " I never liked any-
body so much in my life. I suppose one is bound to
say that kind of thing." " Oh, you ill-natured man,"
said Miss Demolines. " I suppose you think that poor
Mr. Broughton is a little — ^just a little, — ^you know
what I mean."

" Not exactly," said Johnny.

" Yes, you do ; you know very well what I mean.
And of coiu^e he is. How can he help it ? "

" Poor fellow, — ^no. I don't suppose he can help it,
or he would ; — ^would n't he ? "

" Of course Mr. Broughton had not the advantage
of birth or much early education. All his friends
know that, and make allowance accordingly. When
she married him, she was aware of his deficiency, and
made up her mind to put up with it."

" It was very kind of her ; don't you think so? "

" I knew Maria Clutterbuck for years before she was
married. Of course she was very much my senior,
but, nevertheless, we were friends. I think I was
hardly more than twelve years old when I first began
to correspond with Maria. She was then past twenty.
So you see, Mr. Eames, I make no secret of my age."
Why should you ? "

But never mind that. Everybody knows that
Maria Clutterbuck was very much admired. Of course
I 'm not going to tell you or any other gentleman all
her history."

" I was in hopes you were."

" Then certainly your hopes will be frustrated, Mr.

ft
ft

MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 35 1

Eames. But undoubtedly when she told us that she
was going to take Dobbs Broughton, we were a little
disappointed. Maria Clutterbuck had been used to a
better kind of life. You understand what I mean, Mr.
Eames ? "

" Oh, exactly ; — and yet it 's not a bad kind of life,
either."

" No, no ; that is true. It has its attractions. She
keeps her carriage, sees a good deal of company, has
an excellent house, and goes abroad for six weeks
every year. But you know, Mr. Eames, there is,
perhaps, a little uncertainty about it."

Life is always imcertain. Miss Demolines."
You 're quizzing now, I know. But don't you
feel now, really, that city money is always very
chancy ? It comes and goes so quick."

" As regards the going, I think that 's the same with
all money," said Johnny.

" Not with land, or the funds. Mamma has every
shilling laid out in a first-class mortgage on land at
four per cent. That does make one feel so secure!
The land can't run away."

" But you think poor Broughton's money may ? "

" It 's all speculation, you know. I don't believe
she minds it ; I don't, indeed. She lives that kind of
fevered life now that she likes excitement. Of course
we all know that Mr. Dobbs Broughton is not what
we can call an educated gentleman. His manners
are against him, and he is very ignorant. Even dear
Maria would admit that."

" One would perhaps let that pass without asking
her opinion at all."

She has acknowledged it to me, twenty times.

353 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

But he is very good-natured, and lets her do pretty
nearly anything that she likes. I only hope she won't
trespass on his good-nature* I do, indeed."

" You mean, spend too much money ? "

" No ; I did n't mean that exactly. Of course she
ought to be moderate, and I hope she is. To that
kind of fevered existence profuse expenditure is per-
haps necessary. But I was thinking of something else.
I fear she is a little giddy."

'' Dear me! I should have thought she was too—
too — ^too "

"You mean too old for an3rthing of that kind.
Maria Broughton must be thirty-three if she 's a
day."

"That would make you just twenty-five," said
Johnny, feeling perfectly sure as he said so tliat the
lady whom he was addressing was at any rate past
thirty!

" Never mind my age, Mr. Eames ; whether I am
twenty-five, or a hundred-and-five, has nothing to do
with poor Maria Clutterbuck. But now I '11 tell you
why I mention all this to you. You must have seen
how foolish she is about your friend Mr. Dalrymple ? "
Upon my word, I have n't."
Nonsense, Mr. Eames; you have. If she were
your wife, would you like her to call a man Conway ?
Of course you would not. I don't mean to say that
there 's anything in it. I know Maria's principles too
well to suspect that. It *s merely because she 's flighty
and fevered."

• " That fevered existence accounts for it all," said
Johnny.

" No doubt it does," said Miss Demolines, with a

MISS MADAUNA DEMOLINES. 353

nod of her head, which was intended to show that she
was willing to give her friend the full benefit of any
excuse which could be offered for her. "But don't
you think you could do something, Mr. Eames ? "

I do something?''

Yes, you. You and Mr. Dalrymple are such
friends! If you were just to point out to him, you

know "

" Point out what? Tell him that he ought n't to be
called Conway? Because, after all, I suppose that 's
the worst of it. If you mean to say that Dalrymple is
in love with Mrs. Broughton, you never made ^ greater
mistake in your life."

" Oh, no ; not in love. That would be terrible, ybu
know." And Miss Demolines shook her head sadly.
" But there may be so much mischief done without
anything of that kind! Thoughtlessness, you know,
Mr. £ames, — pure thoughtlessness! Think of what I
have said, and if you can speak a word to your friend,
do. And now I want to ask you something else. I 'm
so glad you 're come, because circumstances have
seemed to make it necessary that you and I should
know each other. We may be of so much use if we
put our heads together." Johnny bowed when he
heard this, but made no immediate reply. " Have you
heard anything about a certain picture that is being
planned?" Johnny did not wish to answer this ques-
tion, but Miss Demolines paused so long, and looked
so earnestly into his face, that he found himself forced
to say something.

What picture? "

A certain picture that is — or, perhaps, that is not
to be, painted by Mr. Dalrymple? "

VOL I. — 23

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354 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" I hear so much about Dalrymple's pictures! You
don't mean the portrait of Lady Glencora Palliser?
That is nearly finished, and will be in the Exhibition
this year."

" I don't mean that at all. I mean a picture that
has not yet been begun."

" A portrait, I suppose? "

" As to that I cannot quite say. It is at any rate
to be a likeness. I am sure you have heard of it.
Come, Mr. Eames ; it would be better that we should
be candid with each other. You remember Miss Van
Siever, of course? "

" I remember that she dined at the Broughtons'."

"And you have heard of Jael, I suppose, and
Sisera? "

" Yes, in a general way, — in the Bible."

" And now will you tell me whether you have not
heard the names of Jael and Miss Van Siever coupled
together? I see you know all about it."

" I have heard of it, certainly."

" Of course you have. So have I, as you perceive.
Now, Mr. Eames," — and Miss Demolines' voice
became tremulously eager as she addressed him, — " it
is your duty, and it is my duty, to take care that that>.
pictiffe shall never be painted."

'* But why should it not be painted? "
You don't know Miss Van Siever, yet? "
Not in the least."

" Nor Mrs. Van Siever? "

" I never spoke a word to her."

I do. I know them both, — well." There was
something almost grandly tragic in Miss Demolines*
voice as she thus spoke. " Yes, Mr. Eames, I know

MISS MADALINA D£MOLIN£S. 355

them well. If that scheme be continued, it will work
terrible mischief. You and I must prevent it."

" But I don't see what harm it will do."

"Think of Conway Dalrymple passing so many
hours in Maria's sitting-room upstairs! The picture
is to be painted there, you know."

" But Miss Van Siever will be present. Won't that
make it all right ? What is there wrong about Miss
Van Siever ? "

" I won't deny that Clara Van Siever has a certain
beauty of her own. To me she is certainly the most
unattractive woman that I ever came near. She is
simply repulsive!" Hereupon Miss Demolines held
up her hand as though she were banishing Miss Van
Siever for ever from her sight, and shuddered slightly.
" Men think her handsome, and she is handsome. But
she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, and dishonest."

" What a fiend in petticoats! "

"You may say that, Mr. Eames. And then her
mother! Her mother is not so bad. Her mother is
very different. But the mother is an odious woman,
too. It was an evil day for Maria Clutterbuck when
she first saw either the mother or the daughter. I tell
you that in confidence."

" But what can I do ? " said Johnny, who began to
be startled and almost interested by the eagerness of
the woman.

" I '11 tell you what you can do. Don't let your
friend go to Mr. Broughton's house to paint the pic-
ture. If he does do it, there will mischief come of it.
Of course you can prevent him."

" I should not think of trying to prevent him unless
I knew why."

356 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAR8ET.

" She is a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up
ever so high, — to think that she was being painted by
Mr. Dabymplet But that is n't the reason. Maria
would get into terrible trouble about it, and there would
be no end of mischief. I must not tell you more now,
and if you do not believe me, I cannot help it Surely,
Mr. Eames, my word may be taken as going for some-
thing ? And when I ask you to help me in this, I do
cjxpect that you will not refuse me." By this time Miss
Demolines was sitting close to him, and had more than
once put her hand upon his arm in the energy of her
eloquence. Then as he remembered that he had never
seen Miss Demolines till the other day, or Miss Van
Siever, or even Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, he bethought
himself that it was all very droll. Nevertheless he had
no objection to Miss Demolines putting her hand upon
his arm.

" I never like to interfere in anything that does not
seem to be my own business," said Johnny.

" Is not your friend's business your own business?
What does friendship mean if it is not so? And when
I tell you that it is my business, mine of right, does
that go for nothing with you ? I thought I might
depend upon you, Mr. Eames ; I did indeed." Then
again she put her hand upon his arm, and as he looked
into her eyes he began to think that after all she was
good-looking in a certain way. At any rate she had
fine eyes, and there was something picturesque about
the entanglement of her hair. " Think of it, and then
come back and talk to me again," said Miss Demolines.

" But I am going out of town to-morrow."

"For how long?"
For ten days."

MISS MADALINA DEMOLINES. 357

"Nothing can be done during that time. Clara
Van Siever is going away in a day, and will not be
back for three weeks. I happen to know that ; so we
have plenty of time for working. It would be very
desirable that she should never even hear of it ; but
that cannot be hoped, as Maria has such a tongue!
Could n't you see Mr. Dalrymple to-night ? "

" Well, no ; I don't think I could."

" Mind, at least, that you come to me as soon as
ever you return."

Before he got out of the house, which he did after a
most affectionate farewell, Johnny felt himself com-
pelled to promise that he would come to Miss Demo-
lines again as soon as he got back to town ; and as the
door was closed behind him by the boy in buttons, he
made up his mind that he certainly would call as soon
as he returned to London. " It 's as good as a play,"
he said to himself. Not that he cared in the least for
Miss Demolines, or that he would take any steps with
the intention of preventing the painting of the picture.
Miss Demolines had some battle to fight, and he would
leave her to fight it with her own weapons. If his
friend chose to paint a picture of Jael, and take Miss
Van Siever as a model, it was no business of his.
Nevertheless he would certainly go and see Miss
Demolines again, because, as he said, she was as good
as a play.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PICTURE.

On that same afternoon Conway Dalrymple rolled
up his sketch of Jael and Sisera, put it into his pocket,
dressed himself with some considerable care, putting
on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing
out-of-doors when he did not intend to wander beyond
Kensington Gardens and the neighbourhood, and which
was supposed to become him well, yellow gloves, and
a certain Spanish hat of which he was fond, and slowly
sauntered across to the house of his friend Mrs. Dobbs
Broughton. When the door was opened to him he did
not ask if the lady were at home, but muttering some
word to the servant, made his way through the hall,
upstairs, to a certain small sitting-room looking to the
north, which was much used by the mistress of the
house. It was quite clear that Conway Dalrymple had
arranged his visit beforehand, and that he was expected.
He opened the door without knocking, and, though
the servant had followed him, he entered without being
announced. " I 'm afraid I 'm late," he said, as he
gave his hand to Mrs. Broughton ; " but for the life of
me I could not get away sooner."

"You are quite in time," said the lady, "for any
good that you are likely to do."

3S8

THE PICTURE; 359

** What does this mean ? "

" It means this, my friend, that you had better give
the idea up. I have been thinking of it all day, and
I do not approve of it"

"What nonsense!"

" Of course you will say so, Conway. I have ob-
served of late that whatever I say to you is called
nonsense. I suppose it is the new fashion that gentle-
men should so express themselves, but I am not quite
sure that I like it."

"You know what I mean. I am very anxious
about this picture, and I shall be much disappointed
if it cannot be done now. It was you put it into my
head first."

" I regret it very much, I can assure you ; but it
will not be generous in you to urge that against me."
But why should n't it succeed ? "
There are many reasons, — some personal to
myself."

" I do not know what they can be. You hinted at
something which I only took as having been said in
joke."

"If you mean about Miss Van Siever and yourself,
I was quite in earnest, G^nway. I do not think you
could do better, and I should be glad to see it of all
things. Nothing would please me more than to bring
Miss Van Siever and you together."

" And nothing would please me less."
But why so ? "

Because, — ^because I can do nothing but

tell you the truth, carina ; because my heart is not free
to present itself at Miss Van Siever's feet."

" It ought to be free, Conway, and you must make

ft
it

tt
tt

366 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF 6ARSET.

it free. It will be well that you should be married,
And well for others besides yourself. I teU you so as
your friend, and you have no truer friend. Sit where
you are, if you please. You can say anything you
have to say without stalking about the room."
" I was not going to stalk, — as you call it."
" You will be safer and quieter while you are sitting.
I heard a knock at the door, and I do tiot doubt that
it is data. She said she would be here."
And you have told her of the picture ? "
Yes ; I have told her. She said that it would be
impossible, and that her mother would not allow it.
Here she is." Then Miss Van Siever was shown into
the room, and Dalrymple perceived that she was a girl
the peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight
better even than candlelight. There was something
in her countenance which seemed to declare that she
could bear any light to which it Uiight be subjected
without flinching from it. And her bonnet, which was
very plain, and her simple brown morning gown, suited
her well. She was one whb required none of the cir-
cumstances of studied dress to carry off aught in her
own appearance. She could look her best when other
women look their worst, and could dare to be seen at
all times. Dalrymple, with an artist's eye, saw this at
once, and immediately confessed to himself that there
was something great about her. He could not deny
her beauty. But there was ever present to him that
look of hardness which had struck him when he first
saw her. He could not but fancy that though at times
she might be playful, and allow the fur of her coat
to be stroked with good-humour, — she would be a
dahgerous playthings using her claws unpleasantly

tHfe PICTURE. 361

when the good-humour should have passed away.
But not the less was she beautiful, and, — ^beyond that
and better than that, for his purpose, — she was pic-
turesque.

"Clara," said Mrs. Broughton, "here is this mad
painter, and he says that he will have you on his
canvas, either with your will or without it."

" Even if he could do that, I am sure he would not,"
said Miss Van Siever.

" To prove to you that I can, I think I need only
show you the sketch," said Dalrymple, taking the
drawing out of his pocket. " As regards the face, I
know it so well by heart already, that I feel certain I
could produce a likeness without eveh a sitting. What
do you think of it, Mrs. Broughton ? "

" It is clever," said she, looking at it with all that
enthusiasm which women are able to throw into their
eyes on such occasions ; " very clever. The subject
would just suit her. I have never doubted that."
£ames says that it is confused," said the artist.
I don't see that at all," said Mrs. Broughton.

" Of course a sketch must be rough. This one has
been rubbed about and altered — but I think there is
something in it."

" An immense deal," said Mrs. Broughton. " Don't
you think so, Clara? "

" I am not a judge."

" But you can see the woman's fixed purpose ; and
her stealthiness as well ; — and the man sleeps like a
log. What is that dim outline? "

" Nothing in particular," said Dalrymple. But the
dim outline was intended to represent Mrs. Van Siever.
It is very good, — unquestionably good," said Mrs.

302 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Dobbs Broughton. " I do not for a moment doubt
that you would make a great picture of it. It is just
the subject for you, Conway; so much imagination,
and yet such a scope for portraiture. It would be full
of action, and yet such perfect repose. And the lights
and shadows would be exactly in your line. I can see
at a glance how you would manage the light in the
tent, and bring it down just on the nail. And then the
pose of the woman would be so good, so much strength,
and yet such grace! You should have the bowl he
drank the milk out of, so as to tell the whole story.
No painter living tells a story so well as you do, Con-
way." Conway Dalrymple knew that the woman was
talking nonsense to him, and yet he liked it, and liked
her for talking it.

'' But Mr. Dalrymple can paint his Sisera without
making me a Jael," said Miss Van Siever.
Of course he can," said Mrs. Broughton.
But I never will," said the artist. " I conceived
the subject as connected with you, and I will never
disjoin the two ideas."

'' I think it no compliment, I can assure you," said
Miss Van Siever.

"And none was intended. But you may observe
that artists in all ages have sought for higher types of
models in painting women who have been violent or
criminal, than have sufficed for them in their portrait-
lures of gentleness and virtue. Look at all the Judiths,
and the Lucretias, and the Charlotte Cordays ; how
much finer the women are than the Madonnas and the
Saint Cecilias."

" After that, Clara, you need not scruple to be a
Jael," said Mrs. Broughton.

ft
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THE PICTURE. 363

" But I do scruple, — ^very much ; so strongly that I
know I never shall do it. In the first place I don't
know why Mr. Dalrymple wants it."

" Want it ! " said Conway. " I want to paint a
striking picture."

But you can do that without putting me into it."
No ; — ^not this picture. And why should you ob-
ject ? It is the commonest thing in the world for ladies
to sit to artists in that manner."
People would know it."

Nobody would know it, so that you need care
about It. What would it matter if everybody knew it ?
We are not proposing anything improper; — are we,
Mrs. Broughton?"

" She shall not be pressed if she does not like it,"
said Mrs. Broughton. " You know I told you before
Clara came in that I was afraid it could not be done."

" And I don't like it," said Miss Van Siever, with
some little hesitation in her voice.

" I don't see anything improper in it, if you mean
that," said Mrs. Broughton.

"But mamma!"

" Well, yes ; that is the difl5culty, no doubt. The
only question is, whether your mother is not so very
singular as to make it impossible that you should
comply with her in everything."

" I am afraid that I do not comply with her in very
much," said Miss Van Siever, in her gentlest voice.

'*0h, Clara!"

" You drive me to say so, as otherwise I should be
a hypocrite. Of course I ought not to have said it
before Mr. Dalrymple."

*' You and Mr. Dalrymple will understand all about

364 '^^^ I^S*^ CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

that, I dare say, before the picture is finished," said
Mrs. Broughton.

It did not take much persuasion on the part of
Conway Dahymple to get the consent of the younger
lady to be painted, or of the elder to allow the sitting
to go on in her room. When the question of esisels
and other apparatus came to be considered Mrs.
Broughton was rather flustered, and again declared
with energy that the whole thing must fall to the
ground; but a few more words from the painter
restored her, and at last the arrangements were made.
As Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's dear friend, Madalina
Demolines, had said, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton liked a
fevered existence. " What will Dobbs say ? " she ex-
claimed more than once. And it was decided that
Dobbs at last should know noting about it as long as
it could be kept from him. " Of course he shall be
told at last," said his wife. '* I would n't keep any-
thing from the dear fellow for all the world. But if he
knew it at first it would be sure to get through Mussel-
boro to your mother."

" I certainly shall beg that Mr. Broughton may not
be taken into confidence if Mr. Musselboro is to fol-
low," said Clara. " And it must be understood that
I must cease to sit immediately, whatever may be the
inconvenience, should mamma speak to me about it"

This stipulation was made and conceded, and then
Miss Van Siever went away, leaving the artist with
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "And now, if you please,
Conway, you had better go too," said the lady, as soon
as there had been time for Miss Van Siever to get
downstairs and out of the hall-door.

" Of course you are in a hurry to get rid of me,**

THE PICTURE. 365

^'Yes, I am/'

" A little while ago I improperly said that some sug-
gestion of yours was nonsense, and you rebuked me for
my blunt incivility. Might not I rebuke you now with
equal justice ? "

"Do so, if you will; — fcut leave me. I tell you,
Conway, that in these matters you must eidier be
guided by me, or you and I must cease to see each
other. It does not do that you should remain here
with me longer than the time usually allowed for a
morning call. Clara has come and gone, and you also
must go, I am sorry to disturb you, for you seem to
be so very comfortable in that chair."

"I am comfortable, — and I can look at you.
Come ; — ihert can be no harm in saying that, if I say
nothing else. Well ;— Tthere, now I am gone."
Whereupon he got up frcwn his arm-chair.

" But you are not gone while you stand there."

" And you would really wish me to marry that girl ? "

" I do, — ^if you can love her."

" And what about her love ? "

"You must win it, of course. She is to be won,
like any other woman. The fruit won't fall into your
mouth merely because you open your lips. You must
climb the tree."

" Still climbing trees in the Hesperides," said Con-
way. " Love does that, you know ; but it is hard to
climb the trees without the love. It seems to me that
I have done my climbing, — have clomb as high as I
knew how, and that the boughs are breaking with me,
and that I am likely to get a fall. Do you understand
me?"

" I would rather not understand you."

366 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" That is no answer to my question. Do you un*
derstand that at this moment I am getting a fall which
will break every bone in my skin and put any other
climbing out of the question as far as I am concerned?
Do you understand that ? "

" No ; I do not/' said Mrs. Lroughton in a tremu-
lous voice.

" Then I '11 go and make love at once to Clara Van
Siever. There 's enough of pluck left in me to ask her
to marry me, and I suppose I could manage to go
through the ceremony if she accepy^d me."

"But I want you to love her," said Mrs. Dobbs
Broughton.

" I dare say I should lov« her well enough after a
bit ; — ^that is, if she did n't break my head or comb
my hair. I suppose there will be no objection to my
saying that you sent me when I ask her ? "

" Conway, you will of course not mention my name
to her. I have suggested to you a marriage which I
think would tend to make you happy, and would give
you a stability in life which you want. It is perhaps
better that I should be explicit at once. As an un-
married man I cannot continue to know you. You
have said words of late which have driven me to this
conclusion. I have thought about it much, — ^too much,
perhaps, and I know that I am right. Miss Van Siever
has beauty, and wealth, and intellect, and I think that
she would appreciate the love of such a man as you
are. Now go." And Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, stand-
ing upright, pointed to the door. Conway Dahymple
slowly took his Spanish hat from o£F the marble slab on
which he had laid it, and left the room without saying
a word. The intennew had been quite long enough,

THE PICTURE. 367

and there was nothing else which he knew how to say
with eflEect.

Croquet is a pretty game out-of-doors, and chess is
delightful in a drawing-room. Battledore and shuttle-
cock and hunt the slipper have also their attractions.
Proverbs are good, and cross-questions with crooked
answers may be made very amusing. But none of
these games are equal to the game of love-making, —
providing that the players can be quite sure that there
shall be no heart in the matter. Any touch of heart
not only destroys the pleasiffe of the game, but makes
the player awkward and incapable and robs him of his
skill. And thus it is that there are many people who
cannot play the game at all. A deficiency of some
needed internal physical strength prevents the owners
of the heart from keeping a proper control over its
valves, and thus emotion sets in, and the pulses are
accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For such a one
to attempt a game of love-making, is as though your
friend with the gout should insist on playing croquet.
A sense of the ridiculous, if nothing else, should in
either case deter the afflicted one from the attempt.
There was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton and Conway Dalrjrmple. Their
valves and pulses were all right. They could play the
game without the slightest danger of any inconvenient
result ; — of any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded
their own feelings. Blind people cannot see and stupid
people cannot understand, — and it might be that Mr.
Dobbs Broughton, being both blind and stupid in such
matters, might perceive something of the playing of
the game and not know that it was only a game of
skill.

368 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

When I say that as regarded these two lovers there
was nothing of love between them, and that tlje game
was tha-efore so far innocent, I would not be under-
stood as asserting that these people had no hearts within
their bosoms. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton probably loved
her husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feehng him
to be a bore, knowing him to be vulgar, aw^re that he
often took a good deal more wine than was good for
him, and that he was almost as uneducated as a hog.
Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking care
that he should have things for dinner which he hked to
eat. But in thig aione there were to be found none of
the charms of a fevered existence,, and therefore Mrs.
Dobbs Broughton, requiring those charms for her com-
fort, played her httle game with Conway Dalrymple.
And as regarded the artist himself, let no read^ pre-
sume him to have been heartless because he flirted with
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Doubtless he will marry
some day, will have a large family for which he will
work hard, and will make a good husband to some
stout lady who will be careful in looking after his linen.
But on the present occasion he fell into some slight
trouble in spite of the innocence of his game. As
he quitted his friend's room he heard the hall-door
slammed heavily ; then there was a quick step on the
stairs, and on the landing-place above the first flight he
met the master of the house, somewhat flurried, as it
seemed, and not looking comfortable, either as regarded
his person or his temper. "By George, he *s been
drinking!" Conway said to himself, after the first
glance. Now it certainly was the case that poor
Dobbs Broughton would sometimes drink at improper
hours.

THE PICTURE. 369

" What the devil are you doing here ? " said Dobbs
Broughton to his friend the artist. *' You *re always
here. You 're here a doosed sight more than I like."
Husbands when they have been drinking are very apt
to make mistakes as to the purport of the game.

" Why, Dobbs," said the painter, " there 's something
wrong with you."

" No, there ain't. There 's nothing wrong ; and if
there was, what 's that to you ? I shan't ask you to
pay anything for me, I suppose."

"Well;— I hope not."

" I won't have you here, and let that be an end of
it. It 's all very well when I choose to have a few
friends to dinner, but my wife can do very well without
your fal-laUing here all day. Will you remember that,
if you please ? "

Conway Dalrymple, knowing that he had better not
argue any question with a drunken man, took himself
out of the house, shrugging his shoulders as he thought
of the misery which his poor dear playfellow would
now be called upon to endure.

VOL. I.— 24

CHAPTER XXVII.

A HERO AT HOME.

On the morning after his visit to Miss Demolines
John Eames found himself at the Paddington station
asking for a ticket for Guestwick, and as he picked up
his change another gentleman also demanded a ticket
for the same place. Had Guestwick been at Liverpool
or Manchester, Eames would have thought nothing
about it. It is a matter of course that men should
always be going from London to Liverpool and Man-
chester ; but it seemed odd to him that two men should
want first-class tickets for so small a place as Guest-
wick at the same moment. And when, afterwards, he
was placed by the guard in the same carriage with this
other traveller, he could not but feel some little curios-
ity. The man was four or five years Johnny's senior,
a good-looking fellow, with a pleasant face, and the
outward appurtenances of a gentleman. The intelli-
gent reader will no doubt be aware that the stranger
was Major Grantly ; but the intelligent reader has in
this respect had much advantage over John Eames,
who up to this time had never even heard of his cousin
Grace Crawley's lover. " I think you were asking for
a ticket for Guestwick ? " said Johnny ; whereupon the
major owned that such was the case. "I lived at
Guestwick the greater part of my lifje," said Johnny,

370

A HERO AT HOME. 371

*' and it 's the dullest, dearest little town in all Eng-
land." " I never was there before," said the major,
*' and indeed I can hardly say I am going there now.
I shall only pass through it." Then he got out his
newspaper, and Johnny also got out his, and for a time
there was no conversation between them. John re-
membered how holy was the errand upon which he
was intent, and gathered his thoughts together, resolv-
ing that having so great a matter on his mind he would
think about nothing else and speak about nothing at
all. He was going down to AUington to ask Lily Dale
for the last time whether she would be his wife ; to
ascertain whether he was to be successful or unsuccess*
ful in the one great wish of his life ; and, as such was
the case with him, — as he had in hand a thing so
vital, it could be nothing to him whether the chance
companion of his voyage was an agreeable or a dis-
agreeable person. He himself, in any of the ordinary
circumstances of life, was prone enough to talk with
any one he might meet. He could have travelled for
twelve hours together with an old lady, and could listen
to her or make her listen to him without half an hour's
interruption. But this joimiey was made on no ordi-
nary occasion, and it behoved him to think of Lily.
Therefore, after, the first little almost necessary effort
at civility, he fell back into gloomy silence. He was
going to do his best to win Lily Dale, and this doing
of his best would require all his thought and all his
energy.

And probably Major Grantly's mind was bent in the
same direction. He, too, had his work before him,
and could not look upon his work as a thing that was
altogether pleasant. He might probably get that which

372 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BAR&ET.

he was intent upon obtaining. He knew, — he afanost
knew, — ^that he had won the heart of the girl whom he
was seeking. There had been that between him and
her which justified him in supposing that he was dear
to her, although no expression of affection had ever
passed from her lips to his ears. Men may know all
that they require to know on that subject without any
plainly spoken words. Grace Crawley had spoken no
word, and yet he had known, — at any rate had not
doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of
which he desired to be the master. She would never
surrender herself altogether till she had taught herself
to be sure of him to whom she gave herself. But she
had listened to him with silence that had not rebuked
him, and he had told himself that he might venture,
without fear of that rebuke as to which the minds of
some men are sensitive to a degree which other men
cannot even understand. But for all this Major
Grantly could not be altogether happy as to his mis-
sion. He would ask Grace Crawley to be his wife ;
but he would be ruined by his own success. And the
remembrance that he would be severed from all his
own family by the thing that he was doing, was very
bitter to him. In generosity he might be silent about
this to Grace, but who can endure to be silent on such
a subject to the woman who is to be his wife? And
then it would not be possible for him to abstain from
explanation. He was now following her down to
Allington, a step which he certainly would not have
taken but for the misfortune which had befallen her
father, and he must explain to her in some sort why he
did so. He must say to her, — ^if not in so many words,
still almost as plainly as words could speak, — I am

A HERO AT HOME. 373

here now to ask you to be my wife, because you spe-
cially require the protection and countenance of the
man who loves you, in the present circumstances of
your father's affairs. He knew that he was doing
right; — ^perhaps had some idea that he was doing
nobly; but this very appreciation of his own good
qualities made the task before him the more difficult.

Major Grantly had the Times, and John Eames had
the Daily News, and they exchanged papers. One
had the last Saturday, and the other the last Spectator,
and they exchanged those also. Then at last when
they were within half-an hour of the end of their jour-
ney, Major Grantly asked his companion what was the
best inn at Guestwick. He had at first been minded to
go on to Allington at once, — ^to go on to AUington and
get his work done, and then return home or remain
there, or find the nearest inn with a decent bed, as cir-
cumstances might direct him. But on reconsideration,
as he drew nearer to the scene of his future operations,
he thought that it might be well for him to remain that
night at Guestwick. He did not quite know how far
Allington was from Guestwick, but he did know that
it was still mid-winter, and that the days were very
short. The Magpie was the best inn, Johnny said.
Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and having a
mother living there now, he had never himself put
up at the Magpie, but he believed it to be a good
country inn. They kept post-horses there, he knew.
He did not tell the stranger that his late old friend
Lord De Guest, and his present old friend. Lady Julia,
always hired post-horses from the Magpie, but he
grounded his ready assertion on the remembrance of
that fact.

374 I'HE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" I think I shall stay there to-night," said the major.

" You 'U find it pretty comfortable, I don't doubt,"
said Johnny. " Though, indeed, it always seems to me
that a man alone at an inn has a very bad time of it.
Reading is all very well, but one gets tired of it at last
And then I hate horse-hair chairs."

"It is n't very delightful," said the major, "but
beggars must n't be choosers." Then there was a
pause, after which the major spoke again. "You
don't happen to know which way Allington lies ? "

"Allington!" said Johnny.

"Yes, Allington. Is there not a village called
Allington? "

" There is a village called Allington, certainly. It
lies over there." And Johnny pointed with his finger
through the window. " As you do not know the coun-
try you can see nothing, but I can see the Allington
trees at this moment."

" I suppose there is no inn at Allington ? "

"There *s a public-house, with a very nice clean
bedroom. It is called the Red Lion. Mrs. Forrard
keeps it. I would quite as soon stay there as at
the Magpie. Only if they don't expect you, they
would n't have much for dinner."

" Then you know the village of Allington? "

" Yes, I know the village of Allington very well. I
have friends living there. Indeed, I may say I know
everybody in Allington."

Do you know Mrs. Dale ? "
Mrs. Dale ? " said Johnny. " Yes, I know Mrs.
Dale. I have known Mrs. Dale pretty nearly all my
life." Who could this man be who was going down
to see Mrs. Dale, — Mrs. Dale, and consequently, Lily

<(
n

A HERO AT HOME. 375

Dale ? He thought that he knew Mrs. Dale so well, that
she could have no visitor of whom he would not be
entitled to have some knowledge. But Major Grantly
had nothing more to say at the moment about Mrs.
Dale. He had never seen Mrs. Dale in his life, and
was now going to her house, not to see her, but a
friend of hers. He found that he could not very well
explain this to a stranger, and therefore at the moment
he said nothing further. But Johnny would not allow
the subject to be dropped. " Have you known Mrs.
Dale long ? " he asked.

"I have not the pleasure of knowing her at all,"
said the major.

I thought, perhaps, by your asking after her "

I intend to call upon her, that is all. I suppose
they will have an omnibus here from the Magpie ? "
Eames said that there no doubt would be an omni-
bus from the Magpie, and then they were at their
journey's end.

For the present we will follow John Eames, who
went at once to his mother's house. It was his inten-
tion to remain there for two or three days, and then go
over to the house, or rather to the cottage, of his great
ally, Lady Julia, which lay just beyond Guestwick
Manor, and somewhat nearer to Allington than to the
town of Guestwick. He had made up his mind that
he would not himself go over to Allington till he could
do so from Guestwick Cottage, as it was called, feeling
that, under certain untoward circumstances, — should
imtoward circumstances arise, — Lady Julia's sympathy
might be more endurable than that of his mother. But
he would take care that it should be known at Alling-
ton that he was in the neighbourhood. He understood

376 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

tiie necessary stra ^ of his campaign too weD. to sup-
pose that he could startl .y into acquiescence.

With his own mother and sister John Eames was in
these days quite a hero. He was a hero with them
now, because in his early boyish days there had been
so little about him that was heroic. Then there had
been a doubt whether ho would ever earn his daily
bread, and he had been a very heavy burden on the
slight family resources in the matter of jackets and
trousers. The pride taken in our Johnny had not been
great, though the love felt for him had been warm.
But gradually things had changed, and John Eames
had become heroic in his mother's eyes. A chance
circumstance had endeared him to Earl De Guest, and
from that moment things had gone well with him.
The earl had given him a watch and had left him a
fortune, and Sir Raffle Buffle had made him a private
secretary. In the old days, when Johnny's love for
Lily Dale was first discussed by his mother and sister,
they had thought it impossible that Lily should ever
bring herself to regard with affection so humble a
suitor; — ^for the Dales had ever held their heads up in
the world. But now there is no misgiving on that
score with Mrs. Eames and her daughter. Their
wonder is that Lily Dale should be such a fool as to
decline the love of such a man. So Johnny was re-
ceived with the respect due to a hero, as well as with
the affection belonging to a son ; — ^by which I mean it
to be inferred that Mrs. Eames had got a little bit of
fish for dinner as well as a leg of mutton.

*'A man came down in the train with me who
says he is going over to Allington," said Johnny.

A HERO AT HOME. 377

"I wonder who he can be. He is staying at the
Magpie."

" A friend of Captain Dale's, probably," said Mary.
Captain Dale was the squire's nephew and his heir.

" But this man was not going to the squire's. He
was going to the Small House."
Is he going to stay there ? "
I suppose not, as he asked about the inn." Then
Johnny reflected that the man might probably be a
friend of Crosbie's, and became melancholy in conse-
quence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient to
send an ambassador down to prepare the ground for
him before he should venture again upon the scene
himself. If it were so, would it not be well that he,
John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon as possi-
ble, and not wait till he should be staying with Lady
Julia?

It was at any rate incumbent upon him to call upon
Lady Julia the next morning, because of his commis-
sion. The Berlin wool might remain in his portman-
teau till his portmanteau should go with him to the
cottage; but he would take the spectacles at once,
and he must explain to Lady Julia what the lawytrrs
had told him about the income. So he hired a saddle-
horse from the Magpie and started after breakfast on
the morning after his arrival. In his unheroic days
he would have walked, — as he had done, scores of
times, over the whole distance from Guestwick to
AUington. But now in these grander days, he thought
about his boots and the mud, and the formal appear-
ance of the thing. "Ah dear!" he said to himself, aa
the nag walked slowly out of the town, " it used to be

378 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

better with me in the old days. I hardly hoped that
she would ever accept me, but at least she had never
refused me. And then that brute had not as yet made
his way down to AUington!"

He did not go very fast. After leaving the town he
trotted on for a mile or so. But when he got to the
palings of Guestwick Manor he let the animal walk
again, and his mind ran back over the incidents of
his life which were connected with the place. He re-
membered a certain long ramble which he had taken
in those woods after Lily had refused him. That had
been subsequent to the Crosbie episode in his life, and
Johnny had been led to hope by certain of his friends,
— especially by Lord De Guest and his sister, — ^that
he might then be successful. But he had been unsuc-
cessful, and had passed the bitterest hour of his life
wandering about in those woods. Since that he had
been unsuccessful again and again ; but the bitterness
of failure had not been so strong with him as on that
first occasion. He would try again now, and if he
failed, he would fail for the last time. As he was
thinking of all this, a gig overtook him on the road,
and on looking round he saw that the occupant of the
gig was the man who had travelled witli him on the
previous day in the train. Major Grantly was alone
in the gig, and as he recognised John Eames he
stopped his horse. " Are you also going to AUington ? "
he asked. John Eafiaes, with something of scorn in
his voice, replied that he had no intention of going to
AUington on that day. He still thought that this man
might be an emissary from Crosbie, and therefore re-
solved that but scant courtesy was due to him. " I
am on my way there now," said Grantly, "and am

A HERO AT HOME. 379

going to the house of yoiir friend. May I tell her that
I travelled with you yesterday ? "

" Yes, sir," said Johnny. " You may tell her that
you came down with John Eames."

" And are you John Eames ? " asked the major.

** If you have no objection," said Johnny. " But I
can hardly suppose you have ever heard my name
before ? "

" It is familiar to me, because I have the pleasure of
knowing a cousin of yours. Miss Grace Crawley."

" My cousin is at present staying at Allington with
Mrs. Dale," said Johnny.

'* Just so," said the major, who now began to reflect
that he had been indiscreet in mentioning Grace
Crawley's name. No doubt every one connected with
the family, all the Crawleys, all the Dales, and all the
Eameses would soon know the business which had
brought him down to Allington ; but he need not have
taken the trouble of beginning the story against him-
self. John Eames, in truth, had never even heard
Major Grantly's name, and was quite unaware of the
fortune which awaited his cousin. Even after what he
had now been told, he still suspected the stranger of
being an emissary from his enemy ; but the major, not
giving him credit for his ignorance, was annoyed with
himself for having told so much of his own history.
" I will tell the ladies that I had the pleasure of meet-
ing you," he said ; '* that is, if I am lucky enough to
see them." And then he drove on.

" I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet
him anywhere again," said Johnny to himself as he
rode on. "When I take an aversion to a fellow at first
sight, I always stick to it. It 's instinct, I suppose."

3^0 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BA&SET.

And he was still giving himself credit for the strength
of his instincts when he reached Lady Julia's cottage.
He rode at once into the stable-yard, with the priYilege
of an accustomed friend of the house, and having given
up his horse, entered the cottage by the back door.
*' Is my lady at home, Jemima? " he said to the maid.

" Yes, Mr. John ; she is in the drawing-room, and
friends of yours are with her." Then he was an-
nounced, and found himself in the presence of Lady
Julia, Lily Dale, and Grace Crawley.

He was very warmly received. Lady Julia really
loved him dearly, and would have done anything in
her power to bring about a match between him and
Lily. Grace was his cousin, and though she had not
seen him often, she was prepared to love him dearly as
Lily's lover. And Lily, — Lily loved him dearly too,
— ^if only she could have brought herself to love him
as he wished to be loved 1 To all of them Johnny
Eames was something of a hero. At any rate in the
eyes of all of them he possessed those virtues which
seemed to them to justify them in petting him and
making much of him.

** I am so glad you Ve come, — ^that is, if you Ve
brought my spectacles," said Lady Julia.

" My pockets are crammed with spectacles," said
Johnny.

" And when are you coming to me ? "

" I was thinking of Tuesday."

"No; don't come till Wednesday. But I mean
Monday. No ; Monday won't do. Come on Tues-
day early and drive me out. And now tell us the

news."

Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a

A HERO AT HOME. 38 1

brave attempt to be gay and easy before Lily ; but he
failed, — and he knew that he failed, — and he knew
that she knew that he failed. "Mamma will be so
glad to see you," said Lily. " I suppose you have n't
seen Bell yet ? "

"I only got to Guestwick yesterday afternoon,"
said he.

" And it will be so nice our having Grace at the
Small House, — ^won't it ? Uncle Christopher has
quite taken a passion for Grace, — so that I am hardly
anybody now in the Allington world."

" By-the-bye," said Johnny, " I came down here with
a friend of yours, Grace."

" A friend of mine ? " said Grace.

" So he says, and he is at Allington at this moment.
He passed me in a gig going there."

" And what is his name ? " Lily asked.

" I have not the remotest idea," said Johnny. " He
is a man about my own age, very good-looking, and
apparently very well able to take care of himself. He
is short-sighted, and holds a glass in one eye when
he looks out of a carriage window. That 's all that I
know about him."

Grace Crawley's face had become suffused with
blushes at the first mention of the friend and the gig ;
but then Grace blushed very easily. Lily knew all
about it at once, — at once divined who must be the
friend in the gig, and was almost beside herself with
joy. Lady Julia, who had heard no more of the major
than had Johnny, was still clever enough to perceive
that the friend must be a particular friend, — ^for she had
noticed Miss Crawley's blushes. And Grace herself
had no doubt as to the man. The picture of her lover,

382 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

with the glass in his eye as he looked out of the win-
dow, had been too perfect to admit of a doubt. In
her distress she put out her hand and took hold of
Lily's dress.

" And you say he is at AUington now ? " said Lily.

" I have no doubt he is at the Small House at this
moment," said Johnny.

CHAPTER XXVIIL

SHOWING HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK,

Major Grantly drove his gig into the yard of the
Red Lion at Allington, and from thence walked away
at once to Mrs. Dale's house. When he reached the
village he had hardly made up his mind as to the
way in which he would begin his attack ; but now, as
he went down the street, he resolved that he would first
ask for Mrs. Dale. Most probably he would find him-
self in the presence of Mrs. Dale and her daughter, and
of Grace also, at his first entrance ; and if so, his posi-
tion would be awkward enough. He almost regretted
now that he had not written to Mrs. Dale, and asked
for an interview. His task would be very diflScult if
he should find all the ladies together. But he was
strong in the feeling that when his purpose was told
it would meet the approval at any rate of Mrs. Dale ;
and he walked boldly on, and bravely knocked
at the door of the Small House, as he had already
learned that Mrs. Dale's residence was called by all
the neighbourhood. Nobody was at home, the serv-
ant said ; and then, when the visitor began to make
further inquiry, the girl explained that the two young
ladies had walked as far as Guestwick Cottage, and
that Mrs. Dale was at this moment at the Great House
with the squire. She had gone across soon after the

383

384 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

young ladies had started. The maid, however, was
interrupted before she had finished telling all this to
the major, by finding her mistress behind her in the
passage. Mrs. Dale had returned, and had entered
the house from the lawn.

"I am here now, Jane," said Mrs. Dale, "if the
gentleman wishes to see me."

Then die major announced himself. " My name is
Major Grantly," said he ; and he was blundering on
with some words about his own intrusion, when Mrs.
Dale begged him to follow her into the drawing-room.
He had muttered something to the effect that Mrs.
Dale would not know who he was; but Mrs. Dale
knew all about him, and had heard the whole of
Grace's story from Lily. She and Lily had often dis-
cussed the question whether, under existing circum-
stances. Major Grantly should feel himself bound to
offer his hand to Grace, and the mother and daughter
had differed somewhat on the matter. Mrs. Dale had
held that he was not so bound, urging that the unfort-
unate position in which Mr. Crawley was placed was
so calamitous to all connected with him, as to justify
any man, not absolutely engaged, in abandoning the
thoughts of such a marriage. Mrs. Dale had spoken
of Major Grantly*s father and mother and brother and
sister, and had declared her opinion that they were en-
titled to consideration. But Lily had opposed this idea
very stoutly, asserting that in an affair of love a man
should think neither of father or brother or mother or
sister. " If he is worth anything," Lily had said, " he
will come to her now, — ^now in her trouble ; and will
tell her that she at least has got a friend who will be
true to her. If he does that, then I shall think that

HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 385

there is something of the poetry and nobleness of love
left." In answer to this Mrs. Dale had replied that
women had no right to expect from men such self-
denying nobility as that. " I don't expect it, mamma,"
said Lily. " And I am sure that Grace does not. In-
deed, I am quite sure that Grace does not expect even
to see him ever again. She never says so, but I know
that she has made up her mind about it. Still I think
he ought to come." "It can hardly be that a man is
bound to do a thing, the doing of which, as you con-
fess, would be almost more than noble," said Mrs.
Dale. And so the matter had been discussed between
them. But now, as it seemed to Mrs. Dale, the man
had come to do this noble thing. At any rate he was
there in her drawing-room, and before, either of them
had sat down he had contrived to mention Grace.
"You may not probably have heard my name," he
said, "but I am acquainted with your friend. Miss
Crawley."

" I know your name very well, Major Grantly. My
brother-in-law who Hves over yonder, Mr. Dale, knows
your father very well, — or he did some years ago.
And I have heard him say that he remembers you."

" I recollect. He used to be staying at Ullathome.
But that is a long time ago. Is he at home now ? "

" Mr. Dale is almost always at home. He very
rarely goes away, and I am sure would be glad to see
you."

Then there was a little pause in the conversation.

They had managed to seat themselves, and Mrs. Dale

had said enough to put her visitor fairly at his ease.

If he had anything special to say to her, he must say

it ; — any request or proposition to make as to Grace
VOL. I. — 25

386 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Crawley, he must make it. And he did make it at
once. " My object in coming to AUington," he said,
" was to see Miss Crawley."

" She and my daughter have taken a long walk to
call on a friend, and I am afraid they will stay for
lunch ; but they will certainly be home between three
and four, if that is not too long for you to remain at
Allington."

" Oh dear, no," said he. " It will not hurt me to
wait."

"It certainly will not hurt me, Major Grantly.
Perhaps you will lunch with me ? "

" I '11 tell you what, Mrs. Dale ; if you '11 permit me,
I '11 explain to you why I have come here. Indeed,
I have intended to do so all through, and I can only
ask you to keep my secret, if after all it should require
to be kept."

" I will certainly keep any secret that you may ask
me to keep," said Mrs. Dale, taking off her bonnet.

" I hope there may be no need of one," said Major
Grantly. " The truth is, Mrs. Dale, that I have known
Miss Crawley for some time, — nearly for two years
now, and, — I may as well speak it out at once, — I
have made up my mind to ask her to be my wife.
That is why I am here." Considering the nature of
the statement, which must have been embarrassing, I
think that it was made with fluency and simplicity.

" Of course, Major Grantly, you know that I have
no authority with our young friend," said Mrs. Dale.
" I mean that she is not connected with us by family
ties. She has a father and mother, living, as I believe,
in the same county with yourself."

" I know that, Mrs. Dale."

HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 387

" And you may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss
Crawley is now staying with me, I owe it in a measure
to her friends to ask you whether they are aware of
your intention."

They are not aware of it."

I know that at the present moment they are in
great trouble."

Mrs. Dale was going on, but she was interrupted by
Major Grantly.

" That is just it," he said. " There are circumstances
at present which make it almost impossible that I
should go to Mr. Crawley and ask his permission to
address his daughter. I do not know whether you
have heard the whole story ? "

" As much, I believe, as Grace could tell me."

'* He is, I believe, in such a state of mental distress
as to be hardly capable of ^\ing me a considerate
answer. And I should not know how to speak to
him, or how not to speak to him, about this unfortu-
nate affair. But, Mrs. Dale, you will, I think, perceive
that the same circumstances make it imperative upon
me to be explicit to Miss Crawley. I think I am the
last man to boast of a woman's regard, but I had
learned to think that I was not indifferent to Grace.
If that be so, what must she think of me if I stay away
from her now ? "

"She understands too well the weight of the mis-
fortune which has fallen upon her father to suppose
that any one not connected with her can be bound to
share it."

" That is just it. She will think that I am silent for
that reason. I have determined that that shall not
keep me silent, and, therefore, I have come here. I

388 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

may, perhaps, be able to bring comfort to her in her
trouble. As regards my worldly position, — though,
indeed, it will not be very good, — as hers is not good
either, you will not think yourself bound to forbid me
to see her on that head."

" Certainly not. I need hardly say that I fully un-
derstand that, as regards money, you are offering
everything where you can get nothing."

" And you imderstand my feeling ? "

" Indeed I do, — and appreciate the great nobility of
your love for Grace. You shall see her here, if you
wish it, — ^and to-day, if you choose to wait." Major
Grantly said that he would wait and would see Grace
on that afternoon. Mrs. Dale again suggested that he
should lunch with her, but this he declined. She then
proposed that he should go across and call upon the
squire, and thus consume his time. But to this he also
objected. He was not exactly in the humour, he said,
to renew so old and so slight an acquaintance at that
time. Mr. Dale would probably have forgotten him,
and would be sure to ask what had brought him to
AUington. He would go and take a walk, he said, and
come again exactly at four. Mrs. Dale again expressed
her certainty that the young ladies would be back by
that time, and Major Grantly left the house.

Mrs. Dale when she was left alone could not but
compare the good fortune which was awaiting Grace,
with the evil fortune which had fallen on her own
child. Here was a man who was at all points a gentle-
man. Such, at least, was the character which Mrs.
Dale at once conceded to him. And Grace had
chanced to come across this man, and to please his
eye, and satisfy his taste, and be loved by him. And

HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 389

the result of that chance would be that Grace would
have everything given to her that the world has to give
worth acceptance. She would have a companion for
her life whom she could trust, admire, love, and of
whom she could be infinitely proud. Mrs. Dale was
not at all aware whether Major Grantly might have
five hundred a year to spend, or five thousand,— or
what sum intermediate between the two, — nor did she
give much of her thoughts at the moment to that side
of the subject. She knew without thinking of it,— or
fancied that she knew, that there were means sufficient
for comfortable living. It was solely the nature and
character of the man that was in her mind, and the
sufficiency that was to be found in them for a wife's
happiness. But her daughter, her Lily, had come
across a man who was a scoundrel, and, as the cohse-
quence of that meeting, all her life was marred!
Could any credit be given to Grace for her success,
or any blame attached to Lily for her failure ? Surely
not the latter! How was her girl to have guarded
herself from a love so unfortimate, or have avoided
the rock on which her vessel had been shipwrecked ?
Then many bitter thoughts passed through Mrs. Dale's
mind, and she almost envied Grace Crawley her lover.
Lily was contented to remain as she was, but Lily's
mother could not bring herself to be satisfied that her
child should fill a lower place in the world than other
girls. It had ever been her idea, — an idea probably
never absolutely uttered even to herself, but not the
less practically conceived, — that it is the business of a
woman to be married. That her Lily should have
been won and not worn, had been, and would be, a
trouble to her for ever.

390 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

Major Grantly went back to the inn and saw his
horse fed, and smoked a cigar, and then, finding that
it was still only just one o'clock, he started for a walk.
He was careful not to go out of Allington by the road
he had entered it, as he had no wish to encounter
Grace and her friend on their return into the village ;
so he crossed a little brook which runs at the bottom
of the hill on which the chief street of Allington is
built, and turned into a field-path to the left as soon as
he had got beyond the houses. Not knowing the
geography of the place he did not understand that by
taking that path he was making his way back to the
squire's house ; but it was so ; and after sauntering on
for about a mile and crossing back again over the
stream, of which he took no notice, he found hin^self
leaning across a gate, and looking into a paddock on
the other side of which was the high wall of a gentle-
man's garden. To avoid this he went on a little further
and found himself on a farm road, and before he could
retrace his steps so as not to be seen, he met a gentle-
man whom he presumed to be the owner of the house.
It was the squire survepng his home farm, as was his
daily custom ; but Major Grantly had not perceived
that the house must of necessity be Allington House,
having been aware that he had passed the entrance to
the place, as he entered the village on the other side.

I 'm afraid I 'm intruding," he said, lifting his hat.

I came up the path yonder, not knowing that it would
lead me so close to a gentleman's house."

" There is a right of way through the fields on to the
Guestwick road," said the squire, " and therefore you
are not trespassing in any sense ; but we are not par-
ticular about such things down here, and you would be

HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 39 1

very welcome if there were no right of way. If you
are a stranger, perhaps you would like to see the out-
side of the old house. People think it picturesque."

Then Major Grantly became aware that this must
be the squire, and he was annoyed with himself for his
own awkwardness in having thus come upon the house.
He would have wished to keep himself altogether
unseen if it had been possible, — ^and especially unseen
by this old gentleman, to whom, now that he had met
him, he was almost boimd to introduce himself. But
he was not absolutely bound to do so, and he deter-
mined that he would still keep his peace. Even if the
squire should afterwards hear of his having been there,
what would it matter? But to proclaim himself at the
present moment would be disagreeable to him. He
permitted the squire, however, to lead him to the front
of the house, and in a few moments was standing on
the terrace hearing an account of the architecture of
the mansion.

" You can see the date still in the brickwork of one
of the chimneys, — that is, if your eyes are very good
you can see it, — 1617. It was completed in that year,
and very little has been done to it since. We think
the chimneys are pretty."

" They are very pretty," said the major. " Indeed,
the house altogether is as graceful as it can be."

" Those trees are old, too," said the squire, pointing
to two cedars which stood at the side of the house.
" They say they are older than the house, but I don't
feel sure of it. There was a mansion here before, very
nearly, though not quite, on the same spot."

" Your own ancestors were living here before that, I
suppose ? " said Grantly, meaning to be civil.

392 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" Well, yes ; two or three hundred years before it, I
suppose. If you don't mind coming down to the
churchyard, you '11 get an excellent view of the house ;
— ^by far the best that there is. By-the-bye, would
you like to step in and take a glass of wine ? "

"I 'm very much obliged," said the major, "but
indeed I 'd rather not." Then he followed the squire
down to the churchyard, and was shown the church as
well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, and a
view over to Allington woods from the vicarage gate,
of which the squire was very fond, and in this way he
was taken back on to the Guestwick side of the village,
and even down on to the road by which he had en-
tered it, without in the least knowing where he was.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was past two.
" I 'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said, again
taking off his hat to the squire, " and if I shall not be
intruding I '11 make my way back to the village."

" What village ? " said the squire.

" To Allington," said Grantly.

"This is Allington," said the squire; and as he
spoke, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley turned a comer
from the Guestwick road and came close upon them.
" Well, girls, I did not expect to see you," said the
squire ; " your mamma told me you would n't be back
till it was nearly dark, Lily."

"We have come back earlier than we intended,"
said Lily. She of course had seen the stranger with her
uncle, and knowing the ways of the squire in such
matters had expected to be introduced to him. But
the reader will be aware that no introduction was pos-
sible. It never occurred to Lily that this man could
be the Major Grantly of whom she and Grace had

HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK. 393

been talking during the whole length of the walk
home. But Grace and her lover had of course known
each other at once, and Grantly, though he was
abashed and almost dismayed by the meeting, of
course came forward and gave his hand to his friend.
Grace in taking it did not utter a word.

" Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself to you
as Major Grantly," said he, tinning to the squire.

"Major Grantly! Dear me 1 I had no idea that
you were expected in these parts."

I have come without being expected."
You are very welcome, I *m sure. I hope your
father is well ? I used to know him some years ago,
and I dare say he has not forgotten me." Then, while
the girls stood by in silence, and while Grantly was
endeavouring to escape, the squire invited him very
warmly to send his portmanteau up to the house.
" We '11 have the ladies up from the house below, and
make it as little dull for you as possible." But this
would not have suited Grantly, — ^at any rate would not
suit him till he should know what answer he was to
have. He excused himself therefore, pleading a posi-
tive necessity to be at Guestwick that evening, and
then, explaining that he had already seen Mrs. Dale,
he expressed his intention of going back to the Small
House in company with the ladies, if they would allow
him. The squire, who did not as yet quite understand
it all, bade him a formal adieu, and Lily led the way
home down behind the churchyard wall and through
the bottom of the gardens belonging to the Great
House. She of course knew now who the stranger
was, and did all in her power to relieve Grace of her
embarrassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a

394 '^^^ ^^S*^ CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

single word since she had seen her lover, nor did she
say a word to him in their walk to the house. And,
in truth, he was not much more communicative than
Grace. Lily did all the talking, and with wonderful
female skill contrived to have some words ready for
use till they all foimd themselves together in Mrs.
Dale's drawing-room. "I have caught a major,
manmfia, and landed him," said Lily, laughing ; " but
I 'm afraid, from what I hear, that you had caught
him first."

CHAPTER XXIX.

MISS LILY dale's LOGIC.

Lady Julia De Guest always lunched at one ex-
actly, and it was not much past twelve when John
Eames made his appearance at the cottage. He was
of course told to stay, and of course said that he would
stay. It had been his purpose to lunch with Lady
Julia ; but then he had not expected to find Lily Dale
at the cottage. Lily herself would have been quite at
her ease, protected by Lady Julia, and somewhat pro-
tected also by her own powers of fence, had it not
been that Grace was there also. But Grace Crawley,
from the moment that she had heard the description of
the gentleman who looked out of the window with his
glass in his eye, had by no means been at her ease.
Lily saw at once that she could not be brought to join
in any conversation, and both John and Lady Julia, in
their ignorance of the matter in hand, made matters
worse.

" So that was Major Grantly ? " said John. " I have
heard of him before, I think. He is the son of the old
archdeacon, is he not ? "

" I don't know about old archdeacon," said Lady
Julia. " The archdeacon is the son of the old bishop
whom I remember very well. And it is not so very
long since the bishop died either."

395

396 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

"I wonder what he 's doing at Allington?" said
Johnny.

" I think he knows my uncle," said Lily.

" But he 's going to call on your mother," he said.
Then Johnny remembered that the major had said
something as to knowing Miss Crawley, and for the
moment he was silent.

" I remember when they talked of making the son a
bishop also," said Lady Julia.

"What; — this same man who is now a major?"
said Johnny.

"No, you goose. He is not the son; he is the
grandson. They were going to make the archdeacon
a bishop, and I remember hearing that he was terribly
disappointed. He is getting to be an old man now, I
suppose ; and yet, dear me, how well I remember his
father."

He did n*t look like a bishop's son," said Johnny.
How does a bishop's son look ? " Lily asked.
I suppose he ought to have some sort of clerical tinge
about him ; but this fellow had nothing of that kind."

" But then this fellow, as you call him," said Lily,
" is only the son of an archdeacon."

" That accounts for it, I suppose," said Johnny.

But during all this time Grace did not say a word,
and Lily perceived it. Then she bethought herself as
to what she had better do. Grace, she knew, could
not be comfortable where she was. Nor, indeed, was
it probable that Grace would be very comfortable in
returning home. There could not be much ease for
Grace till the coming meeting between her and Major
Grantly should be over. But it would be better that
Grace should go back to Allington at once ; and better

MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. 397

also, perhaps, for Major Grantly that it should be so.
" Lady Julia," she said, " I don't think we '11 mind
stopping for lunch to-day."

" Nonsense, my dear ; you promised."

" I think we must break our promise ; I do indeed.
You must n't be angry with us." And Lily looked at
Lady Julia, as though there was something which Lady
Julia ought to understand, which she, Lily, could not
quite explain. I fear that Lily was false, and intended
her old friend to believe that she was running away
because John Eames had come there.

" But you will be famished," said Lady Julia.

" We shall live through it," said Lily.

" It is out of the question that I should let you walk
all the way here from AUington and all the way back
without taking something."

" We shall just be home in time for lunch if we go
now," said Lfly. " Will not that be best, Grace ? "

Grace h2u*dly knew what would be best. She only
knew that Major Grandy was at AUington, and that
he had come thither to see her. The idea of hurrying
back after him was unpleasant to her, and yet she was
so flurried that she felt thankful to Lily for taking her
away from the cottage. The matter was compromised
at last. They remained for half an hour, and ate some
biscuits, and pretended to drink a glass of wine, and
then they started. John Eames, who in truth believed
that Lily Dale was running away from him, was by no
means well pleased, and when the girls were gone, did
not make himself so agreeable to his old friend as he
should have done. " What a fool I am to come here
at all," he said, throwing himself into an arm-chair as
soon as the front door was closed.

39^ THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

" That 's very civil to me, John! "

" You know what I mean, Lady Julia. I am a fool
to come near her, until I can do so without thinking
more of her than I do of any other girl in the county."

" I don't think you have anything to complain of as
yet," said Lady Julia, who had in some sort perceived
that Lily's retreat had been on Grace's account, and
not on her own. " It seems to me that Lily was very
glad to see you, and when I told her that you were
coming to stay here, and would be near them for
some days, she seemed to be quite pleased, — she did
indeed."

" Then why did she run away the moment I came
in? " said Johnny.

" I think it was something you said about that man
who has gone to AUington."

" What difference can the man make to her ? The
truth is, I despise myself, — I do indeed. Lady JuKa.
Only think of my meeting Crosbie at dinner the other
day, and his having the impertinence to come up and
shake hands with me."

"I suppose he did n't say anything about what
happened at the Paddington Station ? "

" No ; he did n't speak about that. I wish I knew
whether she cares for him still. If I thought she did,
I would never speak another word to her, — I mean
about myself. Of course I am not going to quarrel
with them. I am not such a fool as that." Then
Lady Julia tried to comfort him, and succeeded so far
that he was induced to eat the mince veal that had
been intended for the comfort and support of the two
young ladies who had run away.

" Do you think it is he ? " were the first words which

MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. 399

Grace said when they were fairly on their way back
together.

" Of course it is he;— did you not hear what they
said?"

" His coming was so unlikely. I cannot understand
that he should come. He let me leave Silverbridge
without seeing me, — and I thought that he was quite
right."

"And I think he is quite right to come here. I
am very glad he has come. It shows that he has
really something like a heart inside him. Had he not
come, or sent, or written, or taken some step before
the trial comes on to make you know that he was
thinking of you, I should have said that he was as
hard, — as hard as any other man that I ever heard of.
Men are so hard! But I don't think he is, now. I
am beginning to regard him as the one chevalier sans
peur et sans reproche, and to fancy that you ought to
go down on your knees before him, and kiss his high-
ness's shoebuckle. In judging of men one's mind
vacillates so quickly between the scorn which is due
to a false man and the worship which is due to a true
man." Then she was silent for a moment, but Grace
said nothing, and Lily continued, " I tell you fairly,
Grace, that I shall expect very much from you now."

" Much in what way, Lily ? "

"In the way of worship. I shall not be content
that you should merely love him. If he has come
here, as he must have done, to say that the moment
of the world's reproach is the moment he has chosen
to ask you to be his wife, I think that you will owe
him more than love."

" I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay

400 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF 6ARSET.

him more than love/' said Grace. There was some^
thing in the tone of her voice as she spoke which made
Lily stop her and look up into her face. There was
a smile there which Lily had never seen before, and
which gave a beauty to her which was wonderful to
Lily's eyes. Surely this lover of Grace's must have
seen her smile like that, and therefore had loved her
and was giving such wonderful proof of his love.
" Yes," continued Grace, standing and looking at her
friend, " you may stare at me, Lily, but you may be
sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the good that
I can do for him."

" What do you mean, Grace ? "

" Never mind what I mean. You are very imperi-
ous in managing your own affairs, and you must let me
be equally so in mine."

" But I tell you everything."

" Do you suppose that if — ^if — if in real truth it can
possibly be the case that Major Grantly shall have
come here to offer me his hand when we are all ground
down into the dust as we are, do you think that I will
let him sacrifice himself ? Would you ? "

" Certainly. Why not ? There will be no sacrifice.
He will be asking for that which he wishes to get ;
and you will be bound to give it to him."
, "If he wants it, where is his nobility ? If it be as
you say, he will have shown himself noble, and his no-
bility will have consisted in this, that he has been will-
ing to take that which he does not want, in order that
he may succour one whom he loves. I also will suc-
cour one whom I love as best I know how." Then
she walked on quickly before her friend, and Lily stood
for a moment thinking before she followed her. They

t4
it

tl
U

MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. 4OE

were now on a field-path, by which they were enabled
to escape the road back to Allington for the greater
part of the distance, and Grace had reached a stile,
and had clambered over it before Lily had caught her.

You must not go away by yourself," said Lily.

I don't wish to go away by myself."

I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I
am sure you are wrong in this, — wrong for both your
sakes. You believe that he loves you ?"

" I thought he did once ; and if he has come here to
see me, I suppose he does stilL"

If that be the case, and if you also love him **

I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do
love him with all my heart. I love him to-day, now
that I believe him to be here, and that I suppose I
shall see him, perhaps this very afternoon. And I
loved him yesterday, when I thought that I should
never see him again. I do love him. I do. I love
him so well that I will never do him an injury."

" That being so, if he makes you an offer you are
bound to accept it. I do not think that you have an
alternative."

" I have an alternative, and I shall use it. Why
don't you take my cousin John ? "

" Because I like somebody else better. If you have
got as good a reason I won't say another word to you."

And why don't you take that other person ? "

Because I cannot trust his love ; that is why. It
is not very kind of you, opening my sores afresh, when
I am trying to heal yours."

" Oh, Lily, am I unkind, — ^unkind to you, who have
been so generous to me ? "

" I '11 forgive you all that and a deal more if you

VOL. I. -- 26

it
«

402 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET.

will only listen to me and try to take my advice. Be-
cause this major of yours does a generous thing which
is for the good of you both, — ^the infinite good of both
of yoUy — ^you are to emulate his generosity by doing
a thing which will be for the good of neither of you.
That is about it. Yes, it is, Grace. You cannot doubt
that he has been meaning this for some time past ; and,
of course, if he looks upon you as his own, — and I
dare say, if the whole truth is to be told, he does "

" But I am not his own."

" Yes, you are, in one sense ; you have just said so
with a great deal of energy. And if it be so,*-^let me
see, where was I ? "

Oh, Lily, you need not mind where you were."
But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my
arguments. Yes, just that. If he saw his cow sick,
he 'd try to doctor the cow in her sickness. He sees
that you are sick, and of course he comes to your
relief."

" I am not Major Grantly's cow."

" Yes, you are."

" Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything
that is his, except — except, Lily, the dearest friend that
he has on the face of the earth. He cannot have a
friend that will go further for him than I will. He will
never know how far I will go to serve him. You don't
know his people, nor do I know them. But I know
what they are. His sister is married to a marquis."

" What has that to do with it ? " said Lily sharply.
" If she were married to an archduke, what difference
would that make ? "

" They are proud people, — ^all of them, — and rich ;
and they live with high persons in the World."

MISS LILY dale's LOGIC. ' 403

i€

I did n't care though they lived with the royal fam-
ily, and had the Prince of Wales for their bosom friend.
It only shows how much better he is than they are."

" But think what my family is, — ^how we are situ-
ated! When my father was simply poor I did not care
about it, because he has been bom and bred a gentle-
man. But now he is disgraced. Yes, Lily, he is. I
am bound to say so, at any rate to myself, when I am
thinking of Major Grantly ; and I will not carry that
disgrace into a family which would feel it so keenly as
they would do." Lily, however, went on with her
arguments, and was still arguing, when they turned
the comer of the lane, and came upon Lily's uncle and
the major himself.

END OF VOL. I.

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